


Falls The Shadow

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-02
Updated: 2002-10-02
Packaged: 2019-05-30 09:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 38,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: This is a continuation of the story arc webegan in our premiere story, '"A Frightened Peace"', and which we attempted tobring to at least a partial conclusion in '"Farther off from Heaven"'.





	1. Falls The Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Falls the Shadow**

**by:** Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew 

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything

**Characters:** Jed and Abbey to be sure. Can't forget those two <G>. Leo and Ron insisted on being included as well. Then there's Fitz, Nancy, Charlie, the WHOLE of the senior staff and... okay. Everybody. Talk about people wanting screen time!!

**Category:** Drama and - we're baaaack!  <VBEG> \- Action/Adventure. In our opinion, these people were starting to get just a little too comfortable. They needed to be shaken up a bit.

**Rating:** TEEN. Some language, - and not just Jed this time- a few adult/political issues and a bit of graphic violence. Our usual excuse is that nobody told us we couldn't, so we did. As long as that excuse works, we're gonna stick with it.  Besides, this is too much fun.

**Spoilers:** Just to be on the safe side, all of the first three seasons – this particular story now takes place after ‘Posse Comitatus’ and during the break between season three and four - and of course the above mentioned stories. It is sort of necessary that you be a little familiar with both.  For those who want to check out/refresh their memories of 'A Frightened Peace' and ‘Further off from Heaven’

**Summary:** This is a continuation of the story arc we began in our premiere story, 'A Frightened Peace', and which we attempted to bring to at least a partial conclusion in 'Farther off from Heaven'. As you can see, we were unsuccessful, hence the arc continues on its merry way here. Don't blame us!! None of these characters would cooperate!! It's very frustrating.

**Summary/Main:** As the threat to his life continues, the President has several decisions to make. The enemy remains elusive, but the battle lines are drawn. Nothing is as it seems or as simple as politics would wish it to be. 

**Feedback:** PLEASE!! - picture us begging and you'll come pretty close  <G>. Honestly, if it weren't for the great encouragement we've received, we wouldn't have known where to go with this. Keep it up and we may actually finish the silly thing <VBEG>. Oh, and the threats? Those ain't half-bad either.

Again, some major kudos and thanks to Sheila for being the best beta reader a couple of fledgling West Wing writers could find. Luckily, the job hasn't slowed her down on her own latest story, so any guilt we've been feeling has happily been dispersed <G>.  We now have a clear conscience. Any stubborn mistakes that remain are ours, not hers

**Authors' notes:** To any lawyer reading this, and we're darn sure there are few, we make no claim of ownership for the characters contained herein. Like many authors who have gone before, we're just borrowing them. With all due respect to Aaron Sorkin, we promise to give them back in time for the season four premiere.

This _is_ getting complicated - not our fault, blame the characters! - but keep in mind this arc began with 'A Frightened Peace', continued with 'Farther off from Heaven' and takes off with a bang here. Revelations are made, yet more clues are presented, and danger surrounds all. Did you honestly think we could keep things simple? HAH!!

As always, we hope you enjoy it.

Okay, Kathleen was stupid enough to leave the dedication to me this time, so I want to dedicate this to her. <G> For being a great friend ever since we first met online through another fandom, for encouraging me to start to write and teaching me how to do it properly.  And for seizing on 'A Frightened Peace' and turning it into the totally evil conspiracy fest you've been reading.  Thanks for the fun, Kathleen.  I was so thrilled when I learned you were a WW fan too.

* * *

>   
> _Between the idea_  
>  And the reality  
> Between the motion  
> And the act  
> Falls the Shadow  
>    
>             Thomas Stearns Eliot: _1888 - 1965_

 

"Why am I just finding out about this?" Seated behind his desk, Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States, calmly raised his hand to forestall the lame excuses he knew were coming. He'd heard it all before and he knew he was going to hear it again. "Humor me," he said softly, leveling the two people seated across from him with an ominously cool stare.

Leo McGarry exchanged a harassed glance with Nancy McNally, the National Security Advisor. Not that he'd really expected it, but he got little support from her, just a helpless shrug. Knowing the President as he did - a forty-year friendship did have certain advantages - he'd known from the start that this was not going to end well.

Hell, it hadn't _started_ well. And McGarry knew it was all going to go steadily downhill from there. He consoled himself with the grim reminder that while this particular day of reckoning had been a long time coming; at least it was finally here. He only wished he had more to give the man. Supposition and vague hints backed up by very few sure facts were all he had. 

Still, what little he _did_ have was valid enough to warrant this meeting, despite the lack of certainty. Too much was at stake to risk otherwise. The reticence he felt, an unaccustomed inability to voice opinion or defense to the President's question, was borne as much from fear for his friend as it was from frustrated duty.

Until he could get his bearings, a drawn-out moment of speechless deferral was all McGarry could offer his Commander in Chief. He had few answers to give, only conjectureand more questions. Considering the haggard look in the President's eyes, his features careworn by recent events, he didn't relish the idea of adding to the man's burden.

Following his lead, Nancy held her tongue as well. When it came to _handling_ Josiah Bartlet's sometimes mercurial moods, she'd learned when to speak and when not to. This was _not_ one of those moments where a casual platitude or evasion would serve. Right now, this was McGarry's show, and she didn't envy him at all.

In the strained, unproductive silence that followed, a brief thought occurred to Bartlet as he watched his advisors struggle to find an answer that would satisfy him. _Politics, the art of the possible._ For the life of him, he couldn't remember where the quote was from. A vague recollection of a Broadway musical, Abbey dragging him kicking and screaming out the White House doors - she never had been impressed with Presidential tantrums - was the best he could do. 

Politics _was_ an art. He had no problem agreeing with that observation. It was the _possibilities_ inherent in this conversation that had sent his blood pressure and temper soaring to new, un-dreamed of heights. A pity that _possible_ and _politics_ very rarely went hand in hand with _responsibility._

McGarry cleared his throat. "Mr. President... "

One executive brow rose with sardonic inquiry. "Leo?" His voice dripped with angry scorn. Tired and irritable, he wasn't in the mood for excuses.

Unfortunately, excuses were all McGarry had. "It was an election year, Mr. President."

Nancy winced. "Good one, Leo," she whispered to the Chief of Staff, _sotto voce_. He in turn gave her a narrow eyed frown that clearly indicated he was not at all amused.

Neither was she.

Nancy may not have known the President as long as McGarry, but like many of the other advisors, she'd learned - more often than not the hard way - how _not_ to open a statement to their somewhat prickly Chief Executive. Especially now, with recent events weighing heavily on the man's conscience.

McGarry should have known better. He _did_ know better. Do not open any response to the man's questions, however open-ended, with an evasion.The fact that he'd obviously forgotten one of the most important rules of presidential engagement was a clear indication that his own personal strain was beginning overrule his common sense. It occurred to her that McGarry was riding the edge of control as narrowly as his friend, frustration dulling his instincts. Bartlet, however, was not holding up as well under the strain. 

The President did not look well. Shadows darkened his eyes and the lines of care and worry had deepened across his face. He rarely smiled anymore. WhileNancy missed his relentless humor, she also understood thathe gave too much of himself, accepted too many burdens and received little in return. Too much had happened of late, with no chance to rest or recoup his losses, both mental and physical. Those few moments of peace he'd been allowed had been fleeting.

Nancy scowled. Now this. 

"And there's the sound byte," Bartlet was saying, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "An _election_ year. I suppose that grants them absolution? 'Excuse us, but we were too busy trying to keep our jobs we forgot to mention the criminal element running amok in what's left of our government? Oh, and by the way, one of them is trying to kill you. Sorry for the inconvenience.' Russian pragmatism, Leo?"

"The communist, hard line incumbent is about to get his ass kicked by a liberal wild card, the polls have him trailing and losing momentum by the minute." McGarry retained his normal unperturbed, affability. But there was a distinct gleam of annoyance hardening his eyes, a sharp, and cutting edge to his words. " _You,_ a man whose opinion for some bizarre reason beyond my understanding carries a tiny bit of international weight,make no secret of the fact that a reformer in the Kremlin would please you absolutely _no_ end ... "

"So this is my fault?"

"Oh for God's sake!" McGarry rolled his eyes heavenward. "Of course it's your fault! Isn't everything? Inflation, piss-poor education standards, failing social security ... "

"A slashed defense budget," Nancy added with a growled mutter.

"Hey!" Bartlet turned on his National Security Advisor with a scowl. "Four decades of putting up with me cuts him some serious slack. You're relatively new. Behave."

"My apologies, Mr. President."

"Ignore him, Nancy," McGarry told her. "You're a target of convenience."

"That makes me feel _so_ much better."

"Then give me an _inconvenient_ one, Leo," Bartlet demanded in a deceptively sweet tone. To anyone who didn't know him, he presented the image of studied patience.

McGarry was one of the few who understood how deceptive that benign appearance could be. The internalfires were banked for the moment, but he knewwith sure certainty thatthose flames were about to erupt into an all-consuming conflagration. Jed Bartlet was not one to sustain a controlled, slow burn for long. Unfortunately, those same fires tended to burn fiercely for short periods, devouring emotion and intent along with the man's patience. 

And the last few months had see far too many of those fires. There wasn't much left within the manto burn and McGarry had no idea how much more the President could take and still stand before the storm. Driven by hard necessity, he'd taken the morally ambiguous path, chosen to damn himself rather than let the innocent continue tosuffer.

_Posse Comitatus._ Bartlet hadn't said the word, but McGarry knew in his heart that inhis darkest moments the Presidentthought it, that the perceived evil of his choice had never truly left him. Probably never would. Regardless of what others may have thought or tried to convince him of, he had passed silent judgment and found himself wanting.

_Murderer_. Shareefwas dead.It didn't matter that the President had no other alternative, that for the greater good all the rules of civilized conduct and government were abandoned.

Sighing, the Chief of Staff rubbed his eyes, banking his own irritation and offering the President the only thing he could. "The possibility existed they were about to lose the Kremlin, sir. The Red Mafia is spending money like water, putting _their_ people into the Duma, struggling to maintain a very profitable status quo. Against all odds, they lose. Money doesn't always talk. Then this? In the middle of a hotly contested election, you _don't_ announce to the electorate, Russian or otherwise. ' _Oops_ , sorry, missed that one. While we weren't looking some petty thief... '"

"Hardly petty."

"' ... and his organization have decided a liberal reformer in the Kremlin is not good for business.' Then _you_ come along, after having slapped them down once already about shitty weapons control,happily meet up with the newman in charge, who _does_ agree with you,in Helsinki and actually _listen_ to the visionary bastard ... "

"My fault again, is it?" Bartlet made no attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice, although a weary amusement flashed in his eyes when he added, "And that sentence structure would earn you a serious scolding from Toby."

"Screw Toby,"McGarry muttered, levelingthe President with what he hoped was a quelling glare. "Sir, with all due respect, shut up and listen, will you? Just this once?"

Despite herself, Nancy couldn't help but be fascinated by the heated exchange. She'd never seen the like before - certainly _not_ in the Oval Office - and probably never would again. These two men, balanced by a deep friendship and abiding loyalty, were skirting what little remained of the protocol line and executive etiquette like circling predators. With some trepidation, she wondered who would snap - literally and figuratively - first.

If the situation hadn't been so grim, she _might_ have found it a touch amusing. A small part of her already did. As briefings go, this one was shaping up to be a true classic.

At his Chief of Staff's outburst, the President spread his hands in a pacifying gesture, content for the moment to let the man continue. A sharpglance in the National Security Advisor's direction warned her that not only was he aware of how this exchange looked, but also promised in no uncertain terms that any laugh, sarcastic or otherwise, by her at this point would find suitable punishment in future.

Satisfied that at least one of his advisors was towing the line, he turned his attention to the disappointing paperwork laid out across his desk.Bartlet had already read the NSA report, several times in fact, and been given Nancy's dry take on the events and findings that had prompted this meeting. Admiral Fitzwallace as well. Neither one of them had been able to provide any satisfying answers. The facts, what little had been provided, were there, easy to see. What he didn't see was where _he,_ the President of the United States, figured into the state of Russian politics and criminal business practice. It didn't make any sense.

Nancy had been unable to explain it, and for all his diligence, other matters had distracted Fitzwallace. That stalwart was doing his level best to clean up the mess and tie up the loose ends created by a presidentially ordered murder. It wouldn't do to have the damningtrail of breadcrumbs lead straight back to the Oval Office.

That left Leo McGarry. As it should be. Bartlet was satisfied to let him fume, to find his own truths amongst the lies. He was good at it, almost too good. It appalled Bartlet sometimes how such a kind, loving man could lower himself to that level, to _think_ himself into the darkness that was not only international politics, but also the world in general. It was a frightening talent, being able to lower oneself into the pit like that.

Bartlet couldn't help but wonder how long Leo could continue to do so and find his way out again. 

Rather than let these two men continue to go at it and risk getting sucked in herself, Nancy decided to inject a few pertinent facts into the proceedings. She knew it wouldn't calm either of them, but it _would_ , hopefully, bring them both back to earth. Finger pointing wasn't going to do them all any good. 

Flipping through the report on her lap and choosing her words carefully, she began to recite what little was known, "The Quantico labs have confirmed the type andthe source for the plastic used to bring down Marine One. Semtex was the base."

McGarry scowled. "Semtex is a Czech specialty, sir," he told the President. "A favorite of terrorists and arms dealers the world over."

"If it's Czech, then where do the Russians figure into this?" Bartlet asked irritably, never comfortable discussing _any_ aspect of military hardware. "Czechoslovakia hasn't been a member of the Warsaw Pact since 1989."

"Up until the late eighties, the Czechoslovak government was in the habit of _allegedly... "_ McGarry almost winced at his poor choice of words, _allegedly_ being one of the more over-used political evasions currently in use and guaranteed to ignite the man's temper. Watching the President for signs of imminent eruption, he continued, "... selling large amounts of Semtex plastic explosive to a number of nations that are known to sponsor terrorist groups, including Libya, Iraq and North Korea."

"Allegedly," Bartlet muttered, not so much because the word irritated him but that he _knew_ his repeating it would irritate Leo. "Don't we know anything for certain? Again, just in case you're not up on recent events, Czechoslovakia hasn't been a country since 1993. Who are we dealing with now? The Czech Republic, or Slovakia?"

"The Czech Republic, sir," Nancy interjected, saving McGarry from a verbal flaying. The President was in an unpredictable mood and they both needed to present a solid front. "There is a tough export control policy in place requiring a case-by-case examination of any arms sales from the Czech Republic by the ministries of Foreign Affairs, Defense, Trade and the Interior. But unfortunately, there is also a powerful black market in the country. A good portion of their GNP comes from arms sales, both legitimate and covert. According to the Czech Security Information Service, it is more than possible to still illegally obtain any amount of arms, ammunition, support equipment and any number of plastic explosives of your choice, including Semtex. No questions asked."

"Including Russia?"

"Yes, sir. Their biggest buyer."

"Wonderful." The President tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. Whatever he'd expected from this meeting, it hadn't been a rundown of the current state of international arms sales. "And we know the Semtex is Russian how?" he asked, hoping for once he'd get a simple answer.

"The base was Semtex, Mr. President," Nancy replied. "Unfortunately it's fairly common on the open market. The stabilizer was a Russian RDX known as Cyclonite. _That_ trace element isunique to a government run arms factory outside Minsk. Unfortunately, that same factory also deals in a thriving civilian trade. Weapons grade isn't their only market."

Bartlet's answering smile bordered on a sneer and contained very little humor. "And Russia's weapons controls are?" That one he already knew the answer to, he just needed to hear his National Security Advisor say it.

Nancy sighed. "Worse than the Czech, sir."

"And the nightmare continues."

"Yes, sir," Nancy agreed, slumping a little in her chair.

"Anything for an easy buck," McGarry snarled, disgusted at the expediency of profit without accountability.

While she agreed with him, Nancy was still irked by his cynical tone. Straightening a bit, she turned a bit of her ire on the Chief of Staff."Yes, money, Leo. The new god of the Russian Republic. Don't ask _who_ , don't ask _why_ , just collect the cash and lose the records."

Aware that the annoyance he was feeling was rapidly spilling over into an open rage, McGarry forced his jumbled emotions into order. He needed to _think_ right now, not _feel_. "Agreed. That line of inquiry is a dead end. What passes for their marketing department isn't going to let their customer lists out for open scrutiny, international or otherwise."

Irritated by his mocking tone, Nancy tried to disguise her own frustration and snapped at him, "And still no word on _who_ or _how_ said explosives were placed on Marine One's rotor housing."

"It was an inside job."

"Tell me something I _don't_ know. Money, Leo. Find me the money, and I'll tell you who did it."

Ignoring them for the moment,Bartlet had his reading glasses on and was slowly leafing through his own copy of the report **.** Frowning, he blinked to bring the blurry lines into focus. Shaking his head, he realized he must be more tired than he thought. No great revelation there. Lack of sleep would do that to a person.

Of course, nothing had changed since the first time he'd read it. No new disclosuresleapt from the pages. Oh, he was a bit calmer now, but not by much. There were too many questions without answers. "Tell me about the nuclear problem."

McGarry fielded that one. "That's about the only good news we have. So far, there's been no word on any front indicating a loose nuke or pony bomb on the market. The Russians are desperate, but not that desperate."

"It's only a matter of time, Leo," Nancy interjected sourly. She'd seen too many close calls over the years to give that problem an easy pass. "Remember what happened last year? Forcing the Kremlin to accept UN and US inspectors has curbed the temptation for the moment, but the vultures are still circling. Government _and_ criminal vultures."

"Is it just me," Bartlet asked, giving both his advisors a hooded look, "or are there far too many questions without answers? We do have an intelligence budget, right? Where is it going?"

Neither of his advisors could give him an answer. At this point, the President wasn't surprised. As _intelligence_ briefings go, this one was a true classic. Nothing concrete, no sure bullet points and _no_ answers. Just questions.

"So we come full circle, right back to the Russians." It was a statement requiring no response from his advisors. The headache he'd woken up with this morning clicked over onto the next level. Yet another problem to deal with.

One question, however, refused to be stilled. "Did Chagarin know?" the President asked, looking up from his desk and giving both McGarry and Nancy a veiled warning. He didn't want excuses, not now. "During Helsinki, did he know about the possible threat?"

Both advisors stared at each other over a sudden, ringing silence. _That_ was the question they'd both been dreading. So much good had come from that meeting. Two men had agreed to bring the world back from the brink of nuclear annihilation. Nothing truly concrete had been set, no words on paper to lock it down. But it had been a bright beginning. Now this.

Unfortunately, Nancy had the answer. "Yes, sir. He knew."

Finally said aloud, McGarry felt an odd disappointment at her words, a sorrow that seemed to weigh him down. Not for the world or the petty politicians left out in the cold, but forhis friend. The President had so wanted something _good_ to come from that meeting. Afterwards, he'd been able to believe he'd actually been able to accomplish something, to take a stand on an issue that would affect the world and leave a lastingmark on history. 

Bartlet's mood had improved considerably after that. Then came Shareef, followed by the senseless death of Secret Service Agent Simon Donovan. His friend had seen too much, been witness to too many petty scenes and had his moral certainties nibbled at by lesser souls. The knowledge of what it had cost the President twisted in McGarry's heart. Just once, he would have liked to see _something_ turn out the way it should. Just for him.

He should have known better.

"How do we know for sure Chagarin was aware of the situation?" the President was asking, snapping McGarry out of his dark musings. He couldn't help but note the faint thread of hope in the man's voice.

Nancy smiled thinly and shot a sidelong glance at the Chief of Staff. McGarry hadn't liked this one bit when he'd found out. Time wasn't going to make it go down any easier."We sicced Lord Marbury on the Russian ambassador."

Far from disappointing her, McGarry performed to standards. His snort of disgust was loud, heartfelt and nearly rattled the windows.

A reluctant smile pulled at one corner of Bartlet's mouth and he shook his head with amused wonder at McGarry's reaction to the British ambassador's name. Uttering it in his presence never failed to illicit some sort of exasperated response from the Chief of Staff. 

"Be fair, Leo," Bartlet consoled him. "The man is good at his job. Besides, thanks to recent events,he was already in the loop."

"The man is a menace," McGarry responded with a curled lip. "And considering we're trying to keep this in house, away from the press, the gossip _and_ several dozen international intelligence agencies that leak like a sieve, he shouldn't be in the loop in the first place."

"He can be trusted."

"So _you_ say."

"So I _know_." With that, the President closed the book on any further arguments. One of these days he was going to have to lock the two of them in a very small closet and let them work out their issues. The entertainment value alone would be worth the effort.

Wisely, McGarry refrained from making any further comment.

Nancy relaxed a bit at the camaraderie displayed by the two men. It was still far from perfect, but the strained atmosphere of earlier had lessened considerably. She could work now. "Ambassador Koslowski was less than circumspect in Marbury's company."

"In other words, he smiled at her like a loon andshe caved," McGarry commented dryly.

"She caved."

Bartlet grinned. "He has that affect on women."

"Not to mention your staff." McGarry put the emphasis on _your_ , disavowing any claim or responsibility for the individuals in question. It hadn't taken long for the British Ambassador to wrap the majority of the senior staff around his finger. As far as he was concerned, neither the senior staff, their assistants _or_ anyone else working in the West Wing were going to be allowed in the same room with that man again.

For an instant, McGarry's gaze sharpened and he measured the President with a shrewd, appraising stare.  Mind you, certain _other_ people shouldn't be allowed either, but for the moment he had no control over that, or the inexplicable disappearing act the President had pulled at his wife’s birthday party that had brought about the revelations to Marbury in the first place. As much as he hated to admit it, McGarry had to give credit where credit was due, to both the Ambassador and the senior staff. _The best and the brightest._

His scowl deepened into an accusing glare, now giving Bartlet his full attention. Oh, they’d found him eventually. But the damage had already been done.

The President caught the look and the meaning behind it. "Don't gothere, Leo," he cautioned sternly, all too aware of the lecture he was about to receiveif he didn't put an end to it right now. 

He'd already caught a small part ofit from his over-protective Chief of Staff, often and usually when he least expected or wanted to hear it. He'd caught the other part from his equally smothering senior bodyguard. RonButterfield may have been a man of few words, but those few had been quite a mouthful.

Abbey had let him have it as well, although _that_ particular set-down had been far more entertaining, if not the reforming influence his wife had hoped it would be. At least he was winning points on that front.

Bartlet sighed, weary of the argument. It wasn't going to change anything and some good had come of that evening's escapades. It had been his wife's birthday party, and hedidn't want or needto be reminded how quickly the shadow of current events had nearly destroyed it and the precious peace he'd managed to find.

Easily changing the subject, the President turned to his National Security advisorand demanded curtly, "Long story short, Nancy."

"According to Lord John... "

McGarry snorted.

"You know," Nancy made no effort to hide her irritation at the peanut gallery comments as she confronted the scowling Chief of Staff."You're gonna blow an adenoid if you keep that up."

"He's been warned," Bartlet couldn't resist adding. "Many times."

McGarry's eyes flashed in a familiar display of annoyance. "Happy as I am to provide the both of you with ammunition for the ridicule neither of you seem to be able to contain, I would like to know what Lord Fauntleroy found out."

"There's that questionable sentence structure again," Bartlet muttered.

Eyes narrowed, McGarry somehow managed _not_ to offer the President a few more words of questionable merit.

"Not much," Nancy responded, shaking her head and feeling like a referee in a sand box scuffle. "Nadia caught on pretty quick and clammed up. Even Marbury's charms couldn't shake much loose after the first few minutes."

"Why am I not surprised?" McGarry sneered.

"Leo," Bartlet cautioned his friend in a low voice. "Not now."

"My apologies, sir." If asked, McGarry couldn't say exactly what it was about Marbury that set him off, but it never failed to do so. Schooling his features into a somewhat more receptive cast, he asked Nancy a bit more reasonably, "So what exactly did he manage to pry out of Nadia?"

Nancy eyed him warily."You sure?"

"You're not helping," McGarry accused her with a besieged glower. A quick glance at Bartlet only confirmed the observation. He had taken his reading glasses off and was absently twisting them in one hand. The other hand was tapping out a staccato rhythm on the arm of his chair.

Whatever release the humor had allowed was fading rapidly. The internal fires were getting hotter, burning higher. McGarry gave his companion advisor a subtle warning, tilting his chin towards Bartlet.

Nancy caught the warning, giving the President an appraising glance of her own. The man wasn't going to like this. "Chagarin knew **,** of that much we're now certain.But he was caught between a questionable reactor sale to Iraq, his own Duma, and the need to open an honest dialog with you. With most of his advisors already in the Mafia pockets, who does he trust to send the message?"

"Another excuse?" Bartlet growled, suppressing the majority of his anger under the mask of executive indifference. "He managed to get the nuclear sound byte through. Why not this?"

McGarry already knew the answer to that one. "Because if he did, he had no guarantee you'd even show up at Helsinki. He couldn't risk that."

"I would have shown."

"He didn't know that," McGarry pointed out as reasonably as he could. "A Russian national tried to kill you, came damn close to succeeding. Would you have believed him if he had told you that neither he nor his government were involved? Another president wouldn't have."

"I might have. But thanks to stubborn Russian reticence, we may never know." Rubbing eyes burned dry from lack of sleep, Bartlet tried to recall the last time he'd beat the four-hour mark and managed to make it through the night. The fact that he couldn't remember was enough of a clue that it had been far too long.

Blinking away some of the grit and forcing fatigued optic muscles to focus on his Chief of Staff; he realized tiredly that only one question remained to be asked. "Why me?" Bartlet had a nasty suspicion he wasn't going to like the answer.

McGarry looked at Nancy and nodded, passing her the ball. This answer belonged to her. He already had a glimmering of the final result, but she'd been the one to put the first pieces of the puzzle together.

Even if she _did_ have to ask Marbury for help. That just added insult to injury.

Nancy paused for a moment and weighed the question. There was no easy answer and she wasn't a politician. She didn't play the game, couldn't dance with the diplomats with any degree of skill or balance. She was far too blunt. But she was good at putting the pieces together after the fact, creating a coherent picture from seemingly unrelated people and events.

This picture was an ugly one. "Chagarin needs you, sir."

Bartlet was honestly confused. "Me?"

"He wants to tear his government apart, rebuild it from the foundations up. With half the Russian governing body in some criminal's pocket, the military selling itself and its weaponsto the highest bidder, and a raging criminal element wanting to keep it that way,he can't do that without support. _Your_ support. Helsinki was only the beginning. Without you in his corner, he can't do it, Mr. President."

" _Mr. President_." Bartlet laughed mirthlessly. "He may not have me in a year."

That was a possibility McGarry didn't even want to consider. Something had happened that night at the theater. He knew the President had met with Governor Ritchie, and that more than a few hot words had been passed. Exactly what, his friend had yet to tell him. The President had come away from that meeting more grimly determined, but with a much darker, almost Machiavellian outlook on the future.

McGarry wasn't sure that added darkness was a plus. "He doesn't need a year, sir. Whatever support you give him now is enough. _If_ ," he put a heavy emphasis on the all-important _if_ , "you lose next year, whatever President-elect who's sucker enough to take the oath of office ... "

Bartlet shot his friend a dubious look, unable to stifle a self-mocking smile, "Thank you for that, Leo. This job _was_ your idea."

Nancy shook her head, chuckling softly.

McGarry ignored them both and continued, "Whoever takes that oath is going to have no choice but to follow through with what you've begun. International, public and moral pressure will force him to."

"Even Ritchie," Bartlet muttered sourly. It was true. He could see that now. Chagarin was in a corner and taking the only way out he could. In a way, they both were. That sudden insight gave him little comfort.

"Even Ritchie," McGarry agreed, wondering at the hidden meaning behind the President's low-voiced comment. _Why him?_ Ritchie was no more a shoo-in than his opponent was. "Chagarin needs the support of an American President to reshape his world. He has you; the one man luck or blind fate has given him to at least have a slim chance of succeeding. _Your_ support.He couldn't risk losing it."

"They kill you," Nancy added softly, watching for the executive reaction, "and it ends before it has even begun. The criminal element wins and they get to keep their profit margins.If they can get at you, nobody is safe."

"Nobody laid claim to Marine One," Bartlet pointed out, not quiet ready to buy into his advisors’ somewhat elaborate speculation.

"You didn't die," McGarry replied sharply, unsure of whether the surge of anger he felt was directed at the still faceless assassins or the apparent indifference of their target. "Why brag at a failure? This isn't a terrorist act. This is strictly for profit. They don't want your fear, they want your _death_."

The President's reaction wasn't quite what McGarry had expected.

"Business as usual," the President muttered, slipping his glasses into his coat pocket and closing the file on the deskin front of him. It was a signal he was about to call the meeting closed. "A hope for future gain, regardless of cost, is no excuse. People died," he saidwearily, still struggling to come to terms with the revelations.

"It's their excuse," McGarry pointed out, not quite as ready as his Commander in Chief to call the issue closed.

"It's a poor one."

"It's the only one he has, Mr. President," Nancy told him, _willing_ him to understand. "Can you blame him? Hard line communists, criminals and a government unraveling at the seams. He's riding a thin line. You listened to him, and now we're stuck with it."

" _I'm_ stuck with it." Bartlet rose from his chair, the final signal that the meeting was indeed over. For now. "I want names. I realize keeping this in-house puts you all under considerable constraint, but it can't be helped."

McGarry and Nancy respectfully stood as well, exchanging troubled glances.

Rubbing his eyes, Bartlet hoped his voice didn't sound as hollow to his advisors as it did in his own ears. Truthfully, he felt as hollow and listless as his voice sounded. "Use whatever avenues of inquiry that you feel safe exploring." He gave McGarry a hard look, warning him, "And I _do_ mean any avenue."

McGarry took the rebuke on the chin and didn't bother arguing with him. There would have been no point. He may not like it, butMarbury would remain in the loop. "Sir... "

Waving him off with a curt gesture and making his way towards the doors leading to the portico, Bartlet gave both his advisors an ultimatum. "Names, Leo. It's an odd conceit, but I find that when I'm someone's target, one _they_ would like to see six feet under, I find that _they_ as a naming qualifier is somewhat... unsatisfactory."

"In the meanwhile, sir?" Nancy asked, giving Leo a questioning look. This wasn't ending the way she had envisioned. _Unsatisfactory_ didn't even begin to cover it.

Opening the glass doors, Bartlet paused and turned. Giving her a curiously sad smile, he said, "In the meanwhile, I get to tell my wife. That should be fun, don't you think?"

McGarry winced. "Sir, I don't think... "

"Tell the staff, Leo," Bartlet interrupted, ignoring his friend's attempt to caution him about the wisdom of telling Abbey the whole truth. He wasn't about to listen. As ugly as this truth was, he was done keeping things from her.

God knows she'd more than earned his candor. Telling her would be suitable punishment for whatever transgressions he had left.  He'd forgotten exactly where he was on the list. "Charlie!" The President's bellow was directed towards the closed office door where he knew his body-man was hovering just outside.

Lately, all _any_ of his staff seemed to be doing was hover. It was starting to get on his already frayed nerves.

The door opened and, hands shoved into his pockets, Charles Young reluctantly stepped into view. Pausing just inside the entrance, he spared a quick glance for McGarry and Nancy, and then turned his attention to the President. "Sir?"

"Cancel any meetings I may have left for the day, Charlie."

"Yes, sir."

"Tomorrow morning, Leo. Eight A.M. I want the senior staff here, prepared and ready to listen." Bartlet turned back to his aide and one corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile. For such a good poker player, the young man's guilt was clearly evident. "You too, Charlie. Just reward for... eavesdropping?"

The flustered aide wasn't given a chance to stammer out an apology or excuse. With that enigmatic statement, the President turned on his heel and strode with stiff dignity out the doors. Once outside, an agent quietly pulled the doorsclosed behind him and two others stepped forwardto follow discretely behind as he made his way towards the Residence.

Yet another moved up alongside, keeping himself between the President and the portico's outer railings.  Butterfield's security measures had hit an all-time high since the party.  Bartlet felt he could barely turn around now without barking an elbow on a solidly built agent.  He was only surprised his staff hadn't come right out and asked what was going on.  

Through the French windows, Young watched him pass down the portico and out of sight. Confused, and more than a little troubled, he turned to the Chief of Staff and tentatively asked, "Leo?"

"Clear his schedule as much as you can for the next few days."

"Already done," Young responded confidently, a look of implacable determination on his face. Running pass interference for the President was his job, and he was damned good at it. As keeper of the schedule, he had to be. "Should I be there?" he asked, somewhat more cautiously. Senior staff meetings _weren't_ part of his job description.

Catching some of his reticence, understanding its source, McGarry told him, "He said to be there, Charlie."

"But..."

"I happen to agree. Thirty minutes, my office. Be there."

Though Young didn't answer, his face spoke for him. He may not have been staff or an advisor, but he still cared. Deceptively composed, there was still a hint of gratitude in his expression when he nodded curtly to both McGarry and Nancy, then left without a word. 

Watching him leave,Nancy let out her breath and stoppedherself just short of swearing. "That whole thingdidn't go well."

McGarry's brows rose and with ill-concealed sarcasm said, "You think?"

"Did that help?"

"No."

"Didn't think so," Nancy sighed. Considering the source of the order, the next question was rhetorical. But knowing McGarry as she did, she had to ask,"You reallygonna tell the staff? Everything?"

"I've been ordered to." McGarry's voice clearly indicated he wasn't happy about it. On the one hand, they deserved to know, even Charlie. On the other, he knew what was going to happen when they found out. Given recent events, even deaths, there was a lot of repressed aggression floating around the West Wing. 

Oh, Leo McGarry knew all too well what their reactions were going to be.

So did Nancy. "I'll duck the shrapnel. You might want to find a nice, out-of-the-way soundproofed room."

"Like that's going to help," McGarry muttered darkly.

~ooOoo~

Abbey was nearly overwhelmed by the bleak suffering on his face, the careworn exhaustion that had turned familiar laugh lines into worried furrows. She studied his profile as he paced in front of her, shrugging out of his jacket and quartering their bedroom like a condemned inmate awaiting execution as he spoke. Even his voice seemed lost. She no longer really heard the words, her alarm growing at what her eyes were telling her.

Initially, she'd been so caught up in her own emotional turmoil as she listened to him speak that she hadn't seen the signs, what he was doing to himself. Maybe she hadn't wanted to see it. It had been too easy to lose herself in the anger, to see only the possibilities of what might have happened and the politically expedient lies that had left them vulnerable to so much more. 

_Somebody, a criminal, had tried to kill her husband._ For whatever spurious, bureaucratic or profit motivated reason, they wanted him dead.

If she had understood Jed correctly, _they_ probably still did. That frightened her, terrified her more than it had the first time she'd been party to the information. That night, when she'd found out in the pressroom corridor, Abbey had never thought to be so primitively afraid ever again. She'd been wrong. Even that moment could not compare to what she was now feeling.

Another fear had been added to the rest, supplanting the new and replacing it with one far older and sickeningly familiar. That it was borne of love did little to relieve the ache in her heart. Watching him pace, vaguely hearing his tiredly issued words, Abbey realized that they, whoever _they_ eventually turned out to be, didn't need to try and kill the man she loved.

He was doing it all by himself.

The harder she tried to deny the truth, the more it persisted. He had lost weight, a health issue whose merits Abbey had long argued to no avail; he never listened. Well, she had finally won _that_ marital dispute, but not in the way she had envisioned or hoped for. He wasn't sleeping either. His appearance, tired and haggard, was testament to that. From the tense line of his shoulders, a slight hitch in his stride, she could see that his back was acting up as well.

Abbey couldn't stop the clinical analysis of what else _might_ be acting up if he didn't slow down, if he didn't stop doing this to himself. 

Closing her eyes, she turned her back to him, deafening herself to the steady drone of his voice and fighting her own internal battle with personal restraint. Abbey wanted to scream at him, to shout down his stubborn persistence. One simple word. _Stop_.

But she couldn't. Listening to the advice of others and the voice of her own conscience, she'd given him her permission to carry on, to travel his chosen path with her devotion and support. She loved him and could do no less.

That same love allowed for a great many things, but not this. If he wouldn't relent, then neither would she. 

"Abbey?"

Her husband, saying her name so closely behind her, sent a ripple of awareness through her. For a moment, Abbey couldn't place the odd tremor she detected in the usually rich and confident timbre of his voice. When she finally placed it, she almost laughed, although the humor was bitter. _Caution._ Jed wasn't sure how she was going to respond to this news. He was waiting for the fireworks.

In a heartbreaking way, she couldn't blame him. His wary reaction was her own fault; she had taught him that lesson. In three decades of marriage she'd managed to give him more pyrotechnics in the last three years than she had over the preceding thirty-one. Given her recent track record, how did she expect him to behave?

It all added up to just one more thing he had to worry about, one more burden he didn't need.

_Not this time._ Abbey shook her head and swore softly, "Damn it, Jed."

She heard him stop pacing, exactly what she'd intended. With her back to him, she knew he couldn't see the grim satisfaction that flashed in her eyes and tightened the line of her mouth. _Good!_ Intentionally or not, over the last year Jed had become very good at pushing her buttons. At this point, Abbey wasn't above pushing a few of _his_ for once. 

All in a good cause, of course.

"Damned is relative, Abbey." Bartlet heard the cynicism spill over into his voice. He couldn't help it. Lately, he'd found himself simply waiting for the inevitable and right now was strangely disappointed his wife wasn't performing in the way he'd anticipated. 

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shrugged and said, "I was expecting..."

Abbey didn't let him finish.

In one motion, she turned and flung herself at him, felt him pull his hands from his pockets and stagger a bit at the unexpected impact. _Unexpected._ That was good. She wanted him off balance. Abbey sensed his confusion as she wrapped her arms around him and held him close, his response hesitant as he returned her embrace.

The touch of his hand on her back was tentative, almost unbearable in its uncertain exploration. Abbey didn't have to glance at his face to see the look of overworked depression that passed over his features. She knew he was taking what he felt he could get, what little solace a brief moment of peace could give him. And somewhere, somehow, he had convinced himself he didn't deserve it.

Too much given for too little in return. He _did_ deserve some peace. Holding him tighter, Abbey wanted to tell him that, but realized sadly that the one constant in their marriage would tragically close him to the validity of any argument she might throw at him. 

He wouldn't listen. 

Caught between the desire to both slap him silly for his stubborn stupidity and the need to take him away from all this, Abbey dropped her chin on to his chest with a long-suffering sigh and murmured, "Was this what you expected?"

Bartlet hesitated, torn by conflicting emotions and expectations. "It was way down on the bottom of the list," he finally admitted.

"It shouldn't have been."

"Aren't you the one who's always telling me I've never been very good at prioritizing?"

Abbey had told him a great many things over the years. This time, all she said was, "Jed, just shut up."

Bartlet chuckled softly at the irony. "That's twice in one day the President of the United States has been told to shut up." For the first time he felt some of the numb detachment that had been weighing him down disappear.

"Only twice?" Abbey reached up and brushed her hand lightly across his cheek, trailing her fingers along the line of his jaw. His skin, cool and dry to the touch, gave no hint of anything other than his need to shave. He hadn't driven himself that far down. Perhaps her initial fears had been premature. For the moment, exhaustion seemed to be his only complaint.

Abbey lifted her chin and boldly met her husband's tired, questioning gaze. She could fix that.

Backing out of his arms, Abbey took both his hands. Giving them a gentle squeeze, she smiled and pulled him along firmly. "You're slipping. So who had the honors this time?"

He took a hesitant step forward, following her lead. "Leo."

"Good for Leo."

"I think Nancy wanted to, but she couldn't quite overcome her sense of self-preservation." Another suspicious step as she tugged again at his hands.

"So who did she take it out on?"

"Leo."

"Good for Nancy," Abbey laughed, pleased that her reaction seemed to amuse him, however briefly. "Leo needs to be taken down a peg or two every now and then."

Bartlet tilted his head, looking at her uncertainly. "Not unlike me?" 

"No, Jed." Abbey held on to his hands as he tried to pull free, taking another step back and forcing him to follow. "Not like you."

This time, Bartlet planted his feet and refused to be led any further. "Abbey," he warned, glancing over her shoulder at the bed now only a few steps behind her. He smiled at her duplicity. She could be sneaky when she needed to be. It was one of her more endearing traits. "You're not going to win this one. We need to talk."

"You and your _words._ Is there anything more to say?" She looked into his eyes; tired, withdrawn and worried, she wondered when they had started to look so _old_. Abbey sighed, clasping his hands tighter and, keeping her tones as reasonable as possible, asked, "Will more words change anything?"

Pride kept him from arguing with her. Obstinacy made him ask, "So you _were_ listening?"

"Every word."

"I wasn't sure."

Abbey shrugged. "So I didn't follow the script."

"There's a script?" One corner of his mouth pulled into a tight smile. "Are we reading the same one?"

"Not even on the same page." Rewarding him with a larger smile of her own, Abbey pulled him closer, watched him with concern as he stumbled a little. "Or I wouldn't be able to do this..."

In one smooth motion, she spun him round in a clean one-eighty. Knowing him as she did, the initial subterfuge and trip shouldn't have been that easy. Abbey heard him grunt in surprise and both felt and saw his right leg go out from under him as he lost his balance. With another dramatic grunt - a bit overdone she thought - he landed on the bed and fell back on his outstretched arms.

With both hands on her hips, Abbey braced herself for his reaction. If she had to tackle him to keep him there, she would. Still, that tumble had been _way_ too easy. Either he had been expecting it and gave in without a fight, or he was so close to the edge he hadn't even seen it coming. Of the two choices, she knew which one she'd prefer.

Bemused, the President stared up at his glowering wife. "That was pretty good," he admitted, teasing her affectionately, "for a girl."

"You're making points, sunshine." Abbey had been hoping for something a bit more colorful. A snarled expletive or two wouldn't have disappointed her. Eyes narrowing suspiciously, she straight out demanded of him, "Is your leg bothering you?"

"If I lie, what'll you do to me?"

"Use your imagination."

"Sorry. I'm trying, but nothing's coming." With a heavy sigh, Bartlet fell back on the bed. Listlessly, he reached up to loosen his tie, then gave up on the knot and let his hand fall across his chest. Closing his eyes, he muttered, "I'm just too damn tired."

"Finally, an admission of mortality." The triumph in her voice was equally mixed with concerned relief. With practiced ease, she lifted his legs and swung them up on to the bed. After removing his shoes, Abbey settled down next to him, taking his limp hand and holding it tightly. "Does this mean I win?"

Bartlet's short laugh came out more like a defeated groan. "Just this once. Gonna mark the calendar?"

"Don't be a smart ass." Turning his hand over, she trailed her fingers along the underside of his wrist, pausing when she felt the fluttering of his pulse. "Just admit defeat like the big, brave man I know you are; with a minimum of fuss, no whining and just this once, please God, no tantrums."

Truthfully, Abbey would have been more than pleased to see him have the energy to even throw a tantrum, let alone whine. Fingers still on his wrist, she watched him intently.

"I don't throw tantrums," Bartlet growled with suitably wounded dignity. Conscious of where she was touching him, one eye opened and regarded her suspiciously. "Abbey?"

"Yes?"

"You're not exactly being subtle."

"About what?" Abbey blinked at him guilelessly, hand and fingers still on his wrist.

"You're usually better at the innocent act, too." The other eye opened and he managed an indulgent smile. "So how's my pulse?"

Abbey sighed and laid his hand back down, patting him on the shoulder with sweet nonchalance. "Normal," she admitted thankfully. With another worry ticked off the list, she felt it safe to relax her guard just a little. But only a little.

"You mean I still have one?" An arched eyebrow indicated his genuine surprise. "Imagine that."

"Yeah, imagine that." Abbey didn't smile at his weak humor, _weak_ being the operative word. He was usually much better with his evasions. A scowl of fond exasperation was all he received for his efforts. "Your leg, Jed?" she patiently asked again. "Is it bothering you?"

"A little," Bartlet admitted irritably. At this point, there was no use in trying to hide it.

"And your back?"

"Are you keeping a list?"

"Do I need a list?" He was getting petulant. Even running on fumes, she could count on his emotional consistency. He hadn't given up yet.

Tenderly brushing away a lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead, wondering when so much more gray had been added to the mix, Abbey reminded him gently, "You know, limping, however slightly, all day then sitting up reading all night is no good for it."

"Good for what?"

"Your back." Abbey resisted the urge to wallop him.

Hitching himself up on one elbow, Bartlet glared at his wife. "Abbey..."

Not impressed at all with his dirty look, Abbey pushed him back down. "Shut up, Jed."

Giving in to the inevitable - and wondering where the Secret Service was when he _really_ needed them - Bartlet muttered a bit sullenly, "That's three."

"Now who's keeping a list?"

"There's hope for me yet." Closing his eyes and counting the aches and pains, Bartlet figured that _hope_ was a long shot at best.

" _That_ ," Abbey proclaimed in arch tones, adjusting the pillow behind his head then reaching to finish the job he had begun with his tie and slipping it from around his neck, "is highly debatable."

"Seriously, Abbey, we need to talk."

"No, Jed." Abbey shook her head, cupping his face with one hand and running her finger along his jaw. "We don't. Words won't change anything."

"It might," Bartlet insisted stubbornly.

That stubborn streak was one of the reasons she loved him so much. "Will it be any different in the morning?"

"No." 

"Will a good night's sleep make any difference?"

"Possibly." The last traces of obstinate resistance faded and he let the final tides of exhaustion carry him away. "Don't you hate always being right?"

At that plaintive question, Abbey had to fight the urge to gather him into her arms. "No," she whispered, watching the tense lines of his face ease as he slipped away.

It might have been a laugh, or it might have been a sigh of weary agreement, Abbey wasn't sure. He was asleep between one breath and the next. Watching him sleep and listening to his breathing slow and deepen, it occurred to her that either one suited her purposes just fine. She'd won this argument. Her victory felt hollow at best, a battle postponed. When the sun rose, it would all start again.

"We'll talk in the morning." 

She knew he hadn't heard her, that he was already deeply asleep. But somehow saying them relieved the odd twinge of guilt that accompanied the thought and words, the sound and sentiment so much like the excuses they'd both used during those long, angry months. Abbey brushed the feeling aside. 

This time it _was_ different. Darker, meaner and not of their choosing. Abbey couldn't quite stop the dull ache of foreboding thinking of the possible future forced on her. This was _her_ husband, half her soul, and somebody wanted to kill him. But this time, they _would_ face it together.

In the morning.

Careful not to wake him, she took the phone off the hook and slid off the edge of the bed. Turning the lights off as she went, Abbey quietly made her way across the room. Grasping the door handle, she paused and turned, giving the sleeping form of her husband a long, searching look. Searching for what, she wasn't sure. Her course determined, she opened the door and confronted the agent standing outside.

"Vaughn, isn't it?" she asked him softly, carefully pulling the door shut behind her.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"I’ve taken the phone off the hook. Nobody wakes him, Henry." That was his first name. It pleased Abbey no end that she could keep far better track of names than Jed. Drove him nuts. "Three people, mister. Myself, Leo McGarry or Charles Young. Anybody else tries to get in..."

Vaughn's mouth twitched. "Shoot them?" 

Abbey blinked at that. For some reason she couldn't quite fathom, that particular Secret Service solution had become the quip of choice. She didn't necessarily disagree with the sentiment."If you'd like. Far be it from me to deny you some fun. Just don't mess up the carpets."

This time the twitch made its way to a half smile. "I understand, ma'am."

"Yeah, I guess you do." That truly surprised Abbey. He _did_ understand. Touching his arm gratefully, she said, "Thank you."

Vaughn merely nodded.

"Oh," Abbey paused before leaving, another name occurring to her. All things considered, having Ron Butterfield bouncing off the walls wouldn't do at all, especially with the phone off the hook. "You might want to add your boss to the list." 

"I had considered it, ma'am." Vaughn had already determined to give his boss a heads-up as soon as the First Lady was out of earshot.

"Good boy."

"We try, ma'am."

Abbey nodded, satisfied that at least for now some things had been taken care of. Not stopping to explain herself further, she left the agent to his job. Jed was safe until the sun came up. Then they would talk. Maybe amongst the words, she and her husband would be able to find some peace.

Maybe Jed could find some peace. Sadly, she doubted it. It wasn't in his nature to accept responsibility without guilt. No amount of words was going to change that.

In the meanwhile, she and Leo McGarry were going to have _their_ words. The night was still young and she knew there were more than a few things Jed's oldest friend could tell her that her husband would not.

If it took all night, Abigail Bartlet was going to have her answers.

~ooOoo~

Nancy McNally would have been disappointed. Truth to tell, McGarry was as well. No emotional outbursts, no arguments or demands, and no verbal shrapnel whatsoever. The senior staff, including a reluctant Charlie, had simply sat, stood or slouched their way through his clipped briefing. Sam Seaborn had done a particularly good job holding up the inner office wall. 

McGarry was forced to conclude that what little information he was able to give them was either far too much, or incredibly too little. They'd already known that the crashing of Marine One had not been an accident. _That_ revelation had been one of the lesser disasters resulting from the First Lady's birthday party. He supposed he should be grateful their reactions weren't bordering on the atmospherically ballistic. 

Small favors. He would have preferred just a few digressions into emotional venting, for their sake as well as his own. The Chief of Staff waited a few more beats, giving them time to truly digest the information, before asking, "Are there any questions?"

Silence greeted that inquiry. McGarry watched them all carefully for a moment, waiting for something else, but it never came. It had all been too much. They werepolitical games players, experts at the murky world of party and governmental manipulation. Criminal behavior with little motivation other than a strict eye to a questionable profit margin didn't come anywhere near their normal operational territories.

McGarry scowled. Unfortunately, they were going to have to learn. "That'll be all then, people. The Oval, eight AM tomorrow."

Slowly, as if in a dream, they began to file out. McGarry sighed. _Shell-shocked_ was the only explanation he could come up with. He'd never seen them react like this before, and the foreboding it gave him now did little to relieve his own deep held concerns. He needed these people sharp, not dulled by events.

"C.J.," he called.

The Press Secretary paused, stepping back as Josh Lyman passed her. 

Toby Ziegler hung back a little, expectantly watching her with concern as she turned towards McGarry. The look she gave the Chief of Staff was neither questioning nor challenging. Without a word, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes, she just waited.

"You okay?" McGarry asked, all too aware that C.J. and recent death brought a whole new perspective to current revelations. He needed her focused.

"I'm fine, Leo," C.J. replied in a carefully neutral voice.

Ziegler looked down, shuffling his feet.

McGarry weighed that answer carefully for a moment, and then nodded. Everyone had been walking on eggshells around her since Donovan's death, and she hadn't been any more open about it to them or the President. The only person she seemed to have confided in was Ron Butterfield. Despite their own understanding, McGarry had got nothing from that man. Perhaps that was as it should be.

Satisfied, McGarry let it go. C.J. Cregg was made of far sterner stuff. She didn't need sympathy from her boss or friends. Maybe later, but not now. "Okay," he told her, almost smiling at her barely veiled relief at being let off the hook. "Keep an ear open for rumors. Anyone in the press corps starts sniffing, I want..."

C.J. rolled her eyes. "I know the drill, Leo."

"Yeah," McGarry smiled softly. Maybe she needed this, something to keep her mind occupied. He pitied the unfortunate reporter who crossed her. "You do."

"He noticed," C.J. muttered, brushing past Ziegler with a tight smile. "Be still my beating heart."

One corner of Ziegler's mouth twisted at that, but his expression lightened. Of all the staffers, he knew her best. For the first time, he realized she really was _okay_. He was proud of her for that. Of all the revelations tonight, that at least lightened his soul a bit. With a curt nod to McGarry, he started to leave.

"Toby," McGarry called, his tone and expression suddenly hardening. "Stay."

Following close behind C.J., Ziegler blinked and turned with a start at the sound of McGarry's voice. Not unused to being singled out, the request still made him nervous. There was a distinct edge to the man's clipped words and he couldn't help but irritably note that his name _and_ the command, spoken as they were, came insulting close to sounding like an order to a unruly dog. 

Shaking his head reassuringly at Seaborn's questioning look, touched at the somewhat misplaced protective instinct being displayed, he gestured that the younger man should leave. Hiding his own apprehension behind his usual indifferent mask and shoving his hands into his pockets, he confronted the Chief of Staff.

"Close the door."

There was that tone of resolute command again. Ziegler sighed heavily, not unaware that the sound only reinforced the mental image of a reluctant canine obeying its cruel, unfeeling master. Ruefully, he realized that something about the ridiculous picture appealed to him. Reluctantly following the order, he also knew that closing the door did not bode well for what was coming next. His misgivings were increasing by the second. McGarry wanted something and he had a nasty suspicion he knew what it was.

The problem was that Ziegler couldn't give it to him. It was common if unspoken knowledge that earlier in the year he and the President had had an... altercation. That was the only polite way to put it. Leo had asked him what had happened only once and been denied, however evasive or docile that rejection may have been.

Ziegler grimaced. He was going to have to do something about the _canine_ metaphors bouncing through his head. It simply wouldn't do and right now he needed to be anything but compliant. At the time, he'd been shocked to learn that the President had told his oldest and most trusted friend nothing, that the quarrel, which had nearly come to open blows, remained a closely held secret between the Communications Director and his Commander-in-Chief.

The implied faith and trust placed in him had been nearly overwhelming and Ziegler wasn't about to betray it, no matter how much the President'sfriend poked and prodded at the source.

McGarry searched Ziegler's face, watching the man with a keenly observant eye and searching for some small clue. The man knew why he was here, but if the Chief of Staff had hoped he would volunteer the confidence, he'd been sadly mistaken. It was a waste of time. Of all the senior staffers, this man alone could hide behind a mask constructed of equal parts grouchy belligerence and cool indifference.

This wasn't going to be easy. He gestured towards a chair. "Sit down, Toby."

"I don't think so, Leo." 

McGarry briefly debated whether or not to make the request an order. Watching Ziegler stand at defiant attention, combinedwith his carefully blank demeanor cautioned him that any further _orders_ at this point weren't going to be received in a civil manner. And right now he didn't need to get in another useless and empty battle of words.

It was solutions McGarry needed, not more questions.

Shuffling his feet, a bit of tense agitation breaking through his deliberately constructed facade, Ziegler waited.

_Damn!_ He really _wasn't_ going to make this easy. McGarry took a deep, calming breath. This was something he had no right prying into, but circumstances left him little choice. "I think you know what I want to ask."

Ziegler shrugged, uncomfortably looking everywhere but directly into McGarry's eyes. "Leo... "

"Relax, Toby, I'm not going to."

Unbending just a bit, but still wary, Ziegler waited in silence for the rest. McGarry wasn't going to leave it at that.

"What went on between you and the President that night is your business. I could pry it out of you if I had to, but I don't have that right."

"You could try."

"Yeah," McGarry admitted with a rueful smile. "And we both know how far I'd get."

"Then why start?" Ziegler demanded bluntly. He never had been one for beating around the proverbial bush. 

"I'm not." McGarry's eyes narrowed, his expression clouding with barely contained anger. It was late, he was tired and he _wasn't_ in the mood for Toby's usual word games. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you crossed a line with him. I don't know what it is about you and _boundaries_ , but there's just something about a line that you just can't resist stepping over. Do you drive with the same disregard for traffic barriers as you have for personal ones? Because I _know_ it was personal, Toby. You hurt him."

A brief spark of uncertainty flashed in Ziegler's eyes. "He still hasn't told you?"

"You know he hasn't. And Dr. Keyworth hasn't been any more forthcoming either."

"No," Ziegler winced at the trauma therapist's name. "He wouldn't." The President's easily delivered jokes about accountability aside, that whole fiasco and its resulting mental turmoil _had_ been his fault. He couldn't hide from that.

Remaining silent, volunteering nothing more, Ziegler continued to wait.

McGarry bit back a curse. For a speechwriter, a master of the written and spoken word, Ziegler was being unusually tight with the verbiage. He couldn't really blame him. Letting him off the hook, he told him, "I'm not asking, Toby. It's over and done with. You've both mended your fences."

"We have." Ziegler’s thoughts flashed back to the chess set, a gift he fully intended to treasure for the rest of his life. Apology and acknowledgment of sincerity without wasted speech. Even so, he hadn't been able to stop what happened next, the wounds he had reopened.

It was that damned need of his to communicate his point, especially when it was just.  He should have realized the man wasn't ready to acknowledge it, couldn't even see the rightness of it yet.  All Ziegler had achieved was to aggravate a still raw hurt, the very last thing he had wanted to do.

Perhaps looking for absolution, however oblique, he offered McGarry this excuse. "I can't change who I am, Leo. I can't pick and choose the truth, or changehow it affects what we laughingly refer to as reality. It just... is."

"Truth," McGarry snorted with profound disgust. He'd had his fill of questionable veracity these last few months. "That's weak."

It _was_ weak, he couldn't argue with that and wasn't about to. Toby shrugged, wrinkled his nose with a scowl and bowed his head; combining four of his usual conversational warnings signs into one complete gesture.

Choosing to ignore the far from subtle hints that he was trespassing, McGarry persisted."I only need to know one thing. You can answer as you see fit, offer whatever _truth_ you feel necessary. Or not answer at all. It's entirely up to you."

"But will you respect me in the morning?"

McGarry stopped the interrogation for a moment, leaning back in his chair and regarding Ziegler with a new understanding. Considering the topic of conversation, the Communications Director's uncharacteristically off-color humor was a clear indication that he was close, skirting the edge of a pain-filled issue he so wanted to get to the bottom of.

Taking into account what little he already knew, the scarce clues provided by Toby,Dr. Keyworth and even the phobia and fear-induced revelations of the President himself, McGarry strongly suspected that if he pushed the man fidgeting in front of him just a little harder, he'd have his answers.

But he couldn't do that.

Pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a slow breath, McGarry had to content himself with one question. "Will what happened that night, in _any_ way, have an effect on him now? The President is bearing a heavy enough load as it is without the fallout from whatever you began taking him further into his head."

Struggling with his conscience, the only answer Ziegler could give the President's deeply troubled friend was, "It... might."

"It _might_." It wasn't enough, but pushing for anything more would not only be a violation of a lifelong friendship, but the respect he'd earned and given in return to Toby Ziegler. "That doesn't help me, Toby," McGarry snapped shortly. "Or him."

"I know." An empty concession, but it was all he could give. Even now, no matter how much he might want to, or how much masterful persuasion was brought to bear, Ziegler would not break the trust that had been placed in him. If it cost him Leo McGarry's regard, then so be it.

The thought had barely crossed his mind before another followed. Trapped between the concerns of one man and the welfare of another, he could offer them both _this_. The rest was up to McGarry. "You could help him, Leo."

McGarry leaned back in his chair and stared at him silently, expectantly. If he had expected a simple yes or no from Ziegler, he'd sadly underestimated him. He should have known better.

"Be his friend, Leo," Ziegler blurted out, scarcely aware of his own voice. He was doing it again, sticking his analytical nose in where it didn't belong. One of these days it was going to get bitten off.Then again, if it made a difference, maybe it _did_ belong there. "Just for once, stop being the Chief of Staff and be his _friend_. You've had this protocol bug up your ass for the past three years. How many times have you called him by name? Once? Twice?"

"Traffic barriers, Toby." McGarry cautioned the man softly with a black look. Eyes narrowed, the frustrated rage that had been simmering just below the surface was ready to boil over. "You're crossing that line again."

"I told you, I can't change." Ziegler shrugged dismissively, ignoring the barely veiled reprimand. Hell, when it came to dirty looks, he'd learned how to dodge more than his fair share, even from Leo. "But you can. For him."

"Toby ... "

"He's a person, Leo!" Ziegler snapped, starting to get upset himself. Despite his growing anger, he still managed to keep his volume levels relatively civil. "Professor, Governor, President. Those are just titles. Josiah Bartlet is much more than that; he’s flesh and blood. You've let the _job_ and the diseasetake that away from him."

"Bullshit! I've done nothing of the kind!" McGarry denied the charge vehemently, although the small, mocking voice of his conscience insisted it was painfully close to the truth. How many times, in the privacy of his own mind, had he whispered the name _Jed_ , only to have _multiple sclerosis_ follow persistently behind?

President. Multiple Sclerosis. Somewhere between the two was his friend. Where, between the office, the daily battles to keep it and the disease, did Jed fit in? Was it all in a name?

McGarry's temper began to rise in response to the questions. And _why_ did it have to be Toby who forced him to ask them in the first place?

So furious at the man's presumption that he could hardly speak, McGarry glared up at his accuser. He had begun this and for his reward he was reluctantly being taken down the same road as his friend. Only the destinations appeared to be different. 

Or were they? Yet another unanswerable question. 

He was starting to get a small glimmer of what the President had had to deal with that night; the sharp, relentless mind behind Ziegler's dogged persistence. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn't. In the halls of ultimate power, the codes of behavior dictated by protocol created a barrier to friendship that could not, _should_ not, be breached.

McGarry had tried to overcome that barrier, had attemptedto balance friendship with duty. He thought for the most part that he had succeeded. 

Perhaps his failure was at this moment staring him in the face.

"He's the _President_ , Toby," McGarry snarled in return, not quite ready to admit defeat.

"He's a man. And somebody is trying to kill him."

"Don't you think I know that?"

"He's your _friend_." The solution had finally occurred to Ziegler. It was so easy, so simple. He could only hope Leo McGarry would understand. "He's got people to protect him. Right now he needs someone to _listen._ Give him his name back, Leo. Say it and mean it. That's all he needs."

"I can't, not now," McGarry said in a dull, troubled voice. His anger had faded somewhat, replaced by a deep regret he couldn't quite place. Damning Ziegler's observation skills and his timing, he growled more forcefully, "He needs to be reminded who he is, especially now."

With an odd twinge of disappointment, Ziegler shrugged sadly and said, "Then you've already damned him." He'd tried. If it cost him his job, then so be it. It wouldn't be the first time.

"There's that line again."

"Your line, Leo. You drew it."

A heavy silence settled over the office, loaded with unspoken possibilities as the Chief of Staff stared at the man who waited with willful composure in front of him. Ziegler blinked at him, waiting for the executioner's stroke, or what? McGarry couldn't say. The man had never been an easy read even at the best of times.

A tentative knock at the door broke the tense standoff.

"Come!" McGarry barked, rubbing his eyes and for the moment shoving Ziegler and his absurd ideas to the back of his mind. Maybe where they belonged. He wasn't sure of himself or where he stood anymore.

Margaret poked her head in. "Leo?"

"What are you still doing here?"

Ignoring his snippy attitude - a skill she practiced daily - Margaret responded coolly, "I work here, remember?"

"Have you ever let me forget?" McGarry drawled irritably. Margaret and Tobyat the same time was a prospect he didn't want to contemplate. "What is it?"

"The First Lady would like to speak with you."

Toby Ziegler practically jumped out of his skin.

McGarry blinked stupidly for a few minutes, then asked, admittedly a bit lamely, "She's here?"

"In the flesh, Leo," Abbey marched into the room. She smiled at McGarry's secretary and said, "Thank you, Margaret. I can take it from here."

"Ma'am," Margaret acknowledged with a slight nod. Giving her flusteredboss a somewhat superior smirk - one she knew she was going to pay for later - she left.

Ziegler took a few cautious steps back, admittedly away from the door and escape, but further away from the First Lady.

Seeing this, Abbey reassured him with a gentle though tired smile, "Relax, Toby. I don't bite."

For the first time that night, Ziegler managed to hold his tongue and _not_ give voice to the dubious observations darting through his over-worked mind.

Sensing a bit of his dilemma, McGarry inclined his head towards the door and said, "We're done for the night, Toby."

"Are we, Leo?"

"It's done."

"Yeah," Ziegler muttered. They were done, for the moment. Nodding politely to Abbey, he said, "Ma'am." 

Then he stiffly withdrew, pulling the door shut behind him. Scowling at the door, McGarry could have sworn the man had left some of his perpetual gloom hanging in the office atmosphere. He briefly considered whether fumigating would help.

"Problems?" Abbey asked, dropping gracefully on to the couch. Pulling up her knees, she regarded her husband's oldest friend curiously. She watched him as he rose stiffly from his chair and came round the side of his desk.

He looked tired. Between herself,Leo, what she'd seen of the staff and her husband, she wondered if _anybody_ in the West Wing was getting any sleep. 

"It's just Toby," he told her, pulling one of the staff chairs around. He didn't sit, merely leaned his arms across the back and looked down at her. "One of life's more reliable inevitabilities."

"That's enough, I suppose."

 

"Yeah," McGarry muttered darkly. "More than enough."

His voice and bearing seemed so resigned, drained and exhausted. Whatever road current events had taken Jed down; she could see that Leo wasn't that far behind him. She'd come here looking for a confrontation, someone to blame and take her anger out on; a good verbal beating to relieve some of her frustrated anxiety. Given that Jed had escaped that fate, his Chief of Staff had seemed the most convenient target.

Knowing Leo as she did, it shouldn't have surprised her to learn that he was doing a good job beating himself up over events he had no control over. Both men were frighteningly similar in their ability to lay personal blame where it wasn't warranted.The thought was not a very satisfying one. "It's not your fault, Leo," she told him softly, finding that her own furyhad disappeared with the admission.

McGarry dropped his head and looked away. The absolution should have helped, but it didn't. "He told you."

Abbey nodded. "He told me."

"I'm sorry... "

"You're not listening, Leo." Abbey rolled her eyes, and then regarded him with a fond smile. "You've been his friend for over forty years... "

"No," McGarry interrupted, shaking his head. "I've _known_ him for over forty years. The friendship, well... " he laughed shortly, a doubtful line tightening his jaw. "That defies explanation."

"No it doesn't."

"Are you being nice to me?" He regarded her suspiciously.

"Maybe."

"Because right now experience has taught me that I should be the _last_ person on earth you'd want to be nice to."

Abbey was too surprised at his admission to do more than nod. Had she been that obvious? "He doesn't blame you, Leo." She sighed, making a mental note _not_ to be quite so predictable in future. "Why should I?"

"Your targeting is off."

"Do you _want_ me to flay you alive?"

"Please?" 

He presented such an appealing picture of guilt and wide-eyed, pleading innocence that Abbey couldn't help but laugh. Somehow, it felt good. Patting her hand on the cushion next to her, she said, "Sit down, Leo."

McGarry dropped down next to her with a heavy sigh. Feeling empty and drained, he waited for the next unavoidable question. The First Lady may no longer have been looking for a fight, but she still wanted answers.

"What didn't he tell me, Leo?"

"Knowing Jed, he didn't leave anything out." There, he'd said his name; out loud and not hidden in the recesses of his deepest thoughts. It was a start, but he wasn't sure it changed anything. "I imagine he was waiting for you to offer up a piece of your mind."

Abbey's face colored at that. Another example of being far too predictable. There was a time, before the White House, when her first thoughts would _not_ have centered on blame or where the next fight was going to originate. When had she started looking at everyone around her as a potential antagonist, especially her husband?

Seeing her reaction, McGarry asked uneasily, "Did you?"

"If I hadn't thought a slight breeze might knock him over, I might have," Abbey admitted, frowning at the memory. 

"How is he?"

It was the question McGarry had been afraid to ask her. They'd been here before, that night two years ago when she had first broken down and told him about the multiple sclerosis. With a sinking heart, he wondered darkly what she would tell him this time.

McGarry looked away, but not before Abbey caught a glimpse of the worry shadowing his eyes, the depths of his concern for her husband's welfare. In that moment, she loved him for it. "He's fine, Leo," she reassured him, patting his hand gently. "Nothing a good night's sleep won't take care of."

"One night," McGarry muttered angrily, frustrated by the useless gesture one night of peace was going to give his friend. "Is it enough?"

"We're going to have to work on that."

McGarry didn't want to ask this next question. It only reinforced Toby's accusations, trapping him between his duty and a friendship he treasured. Still, he _had_ to ask. "What about the... multiple sclerosis?"

Abbey blinked at that, momentarily at a loss for words. Leo, the staff and practically everyone in the West Wing rarely referred to the disease by its full name. It had simply become _MS_ , or the _thing_. As if by contracting, lessening the syllable count, the hidden monster could be reduced and defeated.

If only it were that easy. "I'd be a great deal happier if he averaged more than four hours sleep a night. Between the work load and the stress, his atrocious sleeping habits aren't helping."

"It's not..."

"No," Abbey cut him off, perhaps a bit more harshly than she'd intended. She just didn't want the possibility voiced. "It's not."  But she had to guard against that possibility as well, however much she might wish to forget it for at least a little while. And the man beside her would fight that intangible enemy with as much determination as she ever could.  "I won't lie to you, Leo.  He's pretty strung out, both physically and emotionally.  He's _got_ to sleep, get some real rest, or we really will have to worry.  But he's not slipped that far yet."

"Sleep." McGarry visibly relaxed. "Jed's not going to take any hints in _that_ department with anything even remotely resembling a civil or borderline polite attitude."

Abbey regarded him curiously. That was twice in one conversation Leo had referred to her husband by his first name, not as the President. Even when she'd first told him about the multiple sclerosis he hadn't broken down and given Jed his name. Protocol and duty had denied them both that one small piece of friendship. She fought back a sudden wave of terror at the thought that events had brought Leo to this.

"He's asleep now," she told him.

"Did he go down without a fight?"

" _Down_ being the operative word." Abbey almost winced at the word _fight_ , but managed to school her features into a semblance of neutrality. "I threw him into bed."

"At least he's consistent."

"No, Leo," Abbey corrected him, the memory bringing a wry, affectionate smile to her face. "I _threw_ him into bed."

Realization dawned on McGarry's face and he chuckled softly at the mental image her words conjured up. "Hail to the First Lady," he told her with all sincerity.

"You bet your ass."

"It shouldn't have been that easy."

Leo McGarry was one of the few people Abbey knew who could make that observation about her husband and truly understand the depth of meaning behind it. Still, it hadn't been _all_ that easy. "He's asleep. That's all that matters right now. I've set the guard dogs. So unless the world decides it's going to spontaneously explode between now and when he wakes up, _nobody_ not on my list disturbs him till the sun clears the horizon tomorrow morning."

"Short list, is it?"

Abbey's face hardened. " _Very_ exclusive."

"Am I on it?"

Squeezing his hand gently was all the answer Abbey felt he needed.

McGarry didn't quite know why, but that gesture pleased him. "It won't be me," he told her, recovering his voice. More so than anyone else in the West Wing, he didn't like being at odds with his friend's wife.

"No," she gave him a grateful smile. "It won't. You're a good friend, Leo."

"Am I?"

He asked the question with such harsh undertones of accusation, directed at himself, that for a moment Abbey was taken completely unaware and left speechless. It was the anguish, the doubt and disappointment clearly etched on his features that frightened her most. This man, always so sure of his place and power, wanted the same reassurances she had been looking for from him.

He wanted answers.

Abbey gave him the only one she could. "Yes, you have. Don't _ever_ doubt that, Leo."

McGarry blinked mutely at the ferocity of her response. He hadn't expected that: a small part of him wanting her to deny him, to leave him to his self-imposed fears. Not sure exactly what he could do, whether friendship or duty _could_ be balanced, he'd perhaps _wanted_ her condemnation.

He should have known better. "I think we all need to get some sleep."

Abbey shook her head with mock disapproval. "If it were only that simple."

"It's a start." McGarry lifted her hand, holding it tightly between both of his. When she finally looked up, he smiled. "Between the two of us, I'm pretty sure we can keep him from imploding. Just... " He released her hand and leaned back against the cushions, letting the day's accumulated exhaustion wash over him. "... keep Toby away from me, okay?"

"Deal." Abbey regarded him intensely, weighing her current suspicions against what had happened nearly a year ago. It hadn't taken a genius to know that Toby Ziegler, with his innate talent for stomping all over personal boundaries, had given her husband a heavy load of grief.

Neither man had given any clue as to what it was, and at the time Abbey had been consumed by other concerns. Misdirected anger had a way of drowning even the most glaring marital problems beneath the accumulation of legal and political barriers.

Apparently, Leo wasn't any safer from the Communications Director's ill-advised barbs than Jed was. "Get some sleep, Leo," was all she said, uncurling her legs and rising from the couch. Looking down at him, she smiled gently and reminded him, "We're all going to need it."

McGarry's huff was part laugh, part disbelieving snort.

Abbey's smile faded. For the first time she voiced her fears aloud."Somebody is trying to kill him, Leo."

Looking up at her, McGarry nearly choked at the stark fear he saw in her eyes, the welling tears she refused to let fall. "I know."


	2. Falls The Shadow

**Falls the Shadow**

**by:** Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew 

**Disclaimer:** Aaron Sorkin owns everything

**Characters:** Jed and Abbey to be sure. Can't forget those two <G>. Leo and Ron insisted on being included as well. Then there's Fitz, Nancy, Charlie, the WHOLE of the senior staff and... okay. Everybody. Talk about people wanting screen time!!

**Category:** Drama and - we're baaaack!  <VBEG> \- Action/Adventure. In our opinion, these people were starting to get just a little too comfortable. They needed to be shaken up a bit.

**Rating:** TEEN. Some language, - and not just Jed this time- a few adult/political issues and a bit of graphic violence. Our usual excuse is that nobody told us we couldn't, so we did. As long as that excuse works, we're gonna stick with it.  Besides, this is too much fun.

**Spoilers:** Just to be on the safe side, all of the first three seasons – this particular story now takes place after ‘Posse Comitatus’ and during the break between season three and four - and of course the above mentioned stories. It is sort of necessary that you be a little familiar with both.  For those who want to check out/refresh their memories of 'A Frightened Peace' and ‘Further off from Heaven’

**Summary:** This is a continuation of the story arc we began in our premiere story, 'A Frightened Peace', and which we attempted to bring to at least a partial conclusion in 'Farther off from Heaven'. As you can see, we were unsuccessful, hence the arc continues on its merry way here. Don't blame us!! None of these characters would cooperate!! It's very frustrating.

**Summary/Main:** As the threat to his life continues, the President has several decisions to make. The enemy remains elusive, but the battle lines are drawn. Nothing is as it seems or as simple as politics would wish it to be. 

**Feedback:** PLEASE!! - picture us begging and you'll come pretty close  <G>. Honestly, if it weren't for the great encouragement we've received, we wouldn't have known where to go with this. Keep it up and we may actually finish the silly thing <VBEG>. Oh, and the threats? Those ain't half-bad either.

Again, some major kudos and thanks to Sheila for being the best beta reader a couple of fledgling West Wing writers could find. Luckily, the job hasn't slowed her down on her own latest story, so any guilt we've been feeling has happily been dispersed <G>.  We now have a clear conscience. Any stubborn mistakes that remain are ours, not hers

**Authors' notes:** To any lawyer reading this, and we're darn sure there are few, we make no claim of ownership for the characters contained herein. Like many authors who have gone before, we're just borrowing them. With all due respect to Aaron Sorkin, we promise to give them back in time for the season four premiere.

This _is_ getting complicated - not our fault, blame the characters! - but keep in mind this arc began with 'A Frightened Peace', continued with 'Farther off from Heaven' and takes off with a bang here. Revelations are made, yet more clues are presented, and danger surrounds all. Did you honestly think we could keep things simple? HAH!!

As always, we hope you enjoy it.

Okay, Kathleen was stupid enough to leave the dedication to me this time, so I want to dedicate this to her. <G> For being a great friend ever since we first met online through another fandom, for encouraging me to start to write and teaching me how to do it properly.  And for seizing on 'A Frightened Peace' and turning it into the totally evil conspiracy fest you've been reading.  Thanks for the fun, Kathleen.  I was so thrilled when I learned you were a WW fan too.

* * *

All eyes turned to follow the tall form of Ron Butterfield, Senior Agent in Charge of White House Security and Head of the President's personal detail, as he stalked his way towards the front of the briefing room. None of the agents assembled for the morning orientation said a word. A grim silence descended with only the shuffling of papers and files, the occasional clearing of a throat to breaking the tense atmosphere.

They were all professionals; they didn't need to be told the gravity of what was going to be said today. The previous briefings and current events were still fresh in their minds. This was their job; they lived it every day. Unknown shadows and threats changed nothing. They weren't looking for excuses or the direction the next attack may come from - just solutions. When the attack came, and they all knew it would, they would be ready.

With long, purposeful strides, Butterfield reached the desk. Wordlessly, he turned and leaned back against the edge. Letting his gaze move across the gathered faces, he gave them the moment to collect their thoughts, settle their emotions. 

The frustrated anger hovering in the atmosphere was almost palpable. 

Butterfield scowled. He understood their rage, the frustration borne of an inability to strike back, to give a name to the shadows haunting them. He shared it, although he knew, as they did, that it was a useless emotional road to take. No amount of fury was going to do any good unless it was focused.

Time to motivate them just a bit more. "The situation is totally unacceptable," he told them in a level, carefully controlled voice. 

Nobody disagreed with him. Faces already clouded with uncertainty hardened, welcoming the challenge he offered. The situation they found themselves in, practically under siege, was unprecedented in the long history of the Secret Service. Nobody doubted his or her abilities. The lack of information was the only stumbling block to resolution.

The time for reacting was over.

Sensing their renewed determination, Butterfield nodded, more than satisfied. The NTSB report had shocked them all to the core. How do you fight or protect from what you couldn't even see, let alone comprehend? The deliberate downing of Marine One, followed so soon after by the senseless death of yet another one of their own, had shaken their confidence. They were good people, professionals knocked off their stride by the unknown. 

Butterfield's lips tightened. Giving the _unknown_ just a partial recognition had gone a long way towards giving his people some of that lost confidence back. Taking it one step further, he asked curtly, "Carlyle, you have a report?"

Sliding out from behind his chair, Dale Carlyle stood. "Yes, sir. I ran a probability analysis on all White House perimeter breaches going back two years. There _is_ a pattern."

The attention level in the room went up a notch, with all eyes and expectations turning to Carlyle. A slight, grim curve at one corner of his mouth was the only indication of his satisfaction. Catching Butterfield's nod of consent, he continued, "There was nothing out of the ordinary till about seven months ago..."

"Even the break-in regarding the President's daughter?" a single voice from the back interrupted. "She _was_ armed."

"But unbalanced," Butterfield corrected the speaker before Carlyle could. It was a good question, but one of the few they had a concrete answer to. "Continue, Dale."

"Sir." Carlyle flipped through his pages. Finding what he was looking for, he said, "It's not much, but the number of intruders detected on the grounds have nearly doubled in the last few months. What's curious is that the number of detainees has _not_ followed that same curve."

"We're being tested," Butterfield concluded. He waited for someone to try and contradict him.

Nobody did.

"Yes, sir." Carlyle nodded. "That was my conclusion as well."

"It's a good one. The stories of the intruders caught have all checked out?"

"To the line. The usual collection of the mentally questionable, the politically motivated and ill-advised college pranks."

A few chuckles greeted the last point ticked off. Pledge week was usually a time of stepped-up security and more than a touch of forbidding amusement. There was nothing quite like scaring the living tar out of a drunken fraternity or sorority pledge caught doing what they would _never_ have contemplated sober.

More than a few heated discussions had erupted over exactly _who_ was going to have the pleasure of calling the kid's parents. 

Butterfield let them laugh, then waved them silent and asked, "Nothing at all conclusive on the getaways?"

Carlyle shook his head. "No, sir. Just that statistically there are _far_ too many."

"And too good," someone added. "They're in and out before we can catch them."

" _Way_ too good," another voice muttered.

Where there had been laughter a moment before, only unhappy grumbling existed now. The Secret Service rightly prided itself on its collective skills. They were _good_ and knew it. Someone thumbing their noses at those skills grated, and all they could do at this point was stand around and take it.

"That's enough!" Butterfield snapped, ending the sour mutterings. At this point, it wasn't what he wanted to hear. "What's the status on employee background checks?"

Caro Lindstrom stood. "Slow going, sir," she answered, not exactly keen about passing on what little she and her team had garnered. "There are fourteen-hundred civilian employees in the White House. And keeping this in-house isn't making it any easier."

"No excuses."

Caro's eyes narrowed. "I'm not making any. We'll get it done."

Butterfield sighed, rubbing his eyes and giving the young woman, and himself, a moment to settle. It was as close as he'd come to an apology. "Nothing has twigged yet?"

"No, sir. So far, no unusual financial activity or suspicious after hours movements. Nothing. We're almost down to the cleaning staff and nobody has raised any flags."

"Not what I wanted to hear."

"Me neither," Caro muttered, dropping back into her seat and scowling at nobody in particular.

Beginning to wonder why he'd even bothered showing up for this meeting, Butterfield clenched his teeth on the oath he wanted to utter. The whole siege mentality that had set in over his people and the West Wing in general was beginning to affect even him. Weighing the whole structure of events, the dire conclusion was that the still-invisible enemy had intended just that.

Mind games, and they were losing.

"In other words," he snarled, not quite able to keep the fury from his voice, "we're right back where we started."

Nobody had the courage to answer him.

"You’re making me repeat myself. Not what I wanted to hear, people." Banking his irritation, Butterfield told them tightly, "I want _any_ line of inquiry followed, no matter how ridiculous."

"The Russian connection, sir?" someone from the back asked.

"Is being looked into," was all Butterfield would admit to. He wasn't as put out at having Lord John Marbury in the loop as the Chief of Staff was, strongly suspecting that the eccentric British ambassador was one of the few aces they had, but he still didn't like it. "If anything concrete is confirmed, we'll be told."

"What about Columbian?" Caro asked cautiously. "As criminals go, the local drug lords are no happier with the President than the Red Mafia."

Butterfield hesitated for a moment, measuring her and the question before asking, "You have something, Caro?"

"Maybe. The rumors have been flying about a certain... connection between the Old World and the New. Weapons, sir," she clarified at Butterfield's questioning look. "The drug lords want to buy, the Russians, legit or otherwise, want to sell. And the conventional type _isn't_ the only toy on the bargaining table."

"The President's stand on international controls hasn't made him very popular with the arms dealers," Carlyle added. "Conventional or otherwise, these people are not happy having their bank accounts cut into. You can't run drugs without guns."

Scowling at the word _conventional_ and the massive can of worms that opened, Butterfield nodded at Caro and inquired coolly, "You still have connections at the FBI?"

Caro grinned. "The prodigal daughter still has some friends. A few at ATF as well."

"Keep it low-key, but see what you can find out."

"Understood, sir."

Emil Torres, Head of Detail for the First Lady, entered the room. Late, he positioned himself against the back wall and offered an apologetic shrug of his shoulders to Butterfield. His boss merely nodded in return, by silent inference acknowledging the fact that of all the agents present, Torres' particular job was the least predictable. Glancing over the shoulder of one of the juniors, quickly scanning the man's meeting notes, Torres brought himself up to speed.

Scowling, Torres realized that he hadn't missed much and not all that much had changed. Speculation piled on riddles with the life of the President caught smack in the middle. It wasn't good, and from his own perspective, even worse. _He_ had to deal with the First Lady, and that indomitable woman wasn't about to be left in the dark over this.

Honestly, he couldn't really blame her, and more than once he had bent a few rules to keep her in the loop. Quite frankly, and he knew it bordered on the ridiculous, he had come to regard Abigail Bartlet as just one more aspect of the President's personal firewall.

Clearing his throat, Torres caught Butterfield's attention. "The perimeter breaches, sir?" he asked, all too aware he was about to add just one more piece to the already chaotic puzzle.

Butterfield scowled. They'd already covered that point. "You have something to add?"

"Not really. I agree someone's been testing us, looking for holes."

"And?"

"There may be another point, sir." Eyes narrowing speculatively, Torres watched Butterfield's expression darken, confirming his suspicions. His boss had been thinking the same thing. The verification of his guess didn't give him any sense of achievement. "Whoever they are, they're trying to get in. That much we know. They may be trying to get _him_ out as well."

Butterfield let out a long breath, nodding.  Torres had hit on the one other point he'd wanted to bring up. "Elk Horn," he growled.

Quickly assimilating the new theory, more than a few eyes widened at that. 

"Yes, sir." Torres frowned, a muscle twitching angrily in his clenched jaw as he thought about the near catastrophic accident that had occurred only a few months before. "We were _this_ close to putting the President on Marine One, removing him from the security of the White House. If he hadn't been so adamant about _not_ going..."

"Can you blame him?" Caro demanded a bit hotly. Like Torres, she was former FBI and more than a little inter-departmental rivalry existed between the two of them. "After what happened? He hasn't used Marine One since the accident, would you?"

Butterfield let his expression set into a mask of stone, revealing nothing and allowing his people to continue with their only halfway correct inferences. An accident of that magnitude would give anyone second thoughts about the dubious safety of air transport. He and Leo McGarry were the only ones who knew that the President's latent claustrophobia added a whole new wrinkle to the human equation.

"Especially after what happened," Torres was saying, a frustrated edge to his voice. He hadn't liked the idea when it had first occurred to him and he liked it even less now. "They brought down Marine One once already. Why not go with an already working scenario and try again? We still don't have any leads as to the inside man who planted the explosives to begin with. The possibility of a repeat is still there."

Butterfield crossed his arms and settled himself more comfortably on the edge of the desk. The debate was getting heated, perhaps more so than he would normally allow. But the speculation and argument allowed them to vent their frustrations _and_ give voice to a few legitimate questions.

For the moment, he was content to let them continue.

"You mean _they_..." there was a distinct sneer in the speaker's voice, obviously not pleased with the only naming qualifier circumstances allowed, "...orchestrated a nuclear accident in order to get the President out of the White House?"

"Maybe," Torres shrugged. "It's worth thinking about."

"We've covered the bases on that one," Butterfield pointed out, playing devil's advocate. "The heavy haul was stolen; the explosion in the Goldfield tunnel was an accident."

"If we're certain of one thing, sir, it's that we're not the only ones covering all the bases. Like I said, it's worth thinking about."

"I have, Emil," Butterfield acknowledged softly, a dangerous hint of warning in his voice.

Torres nearly flinched at that, but managed to hold his ground. "Yes, sir." 

"It's a stretch." Caro was thinking about it as well, and she didn't like it. "If that, then why not make an attempt at the play? ‘Wars of the Roses’ would have been a perfect venue. Or any of his other speaking engagements? There's been more than a few, and _all_ of them open for an attempt. Why not?"

Battlefield smiled grimly at that question. "With the President's own personal security tripled, not to mention extremely on edge? _And_ Governor Ritchie's to boot? I don't think they're that stupid. Success is the game, not a spectacular failure."

"They may have tried," Caro insisted stubbornly, not willing to yield to either Torres or her boss. 

Watching the faces of his people, Butterfield could clearly see what they were thinking. The name wasn't said aloud, but it was on everyone's mind. Simon Donovan; one of their own, dead from multiple gunshot wounds trying to stop a petty robbery. Everybody had liked him and his loss was deeply felt. It would have been nice to be able to give that death some meaning.

Unfortunately, he couldn't give them that. "No, this much we're sure of. Simon's death was... a mistake." He couldn't think of any other word. Donovan's fall had hit him nearly as hard as it had C.J. Cregg, but not even for her or his people could he change the sour facts. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. _They_ ," his lip curled beneath his mustache, no happier with the qualifier than anyone else, "had nothing to do with it."

Carlyle nodded his agreement. "Whatever game is being played, it's a lot deeper than using a dime store robbery as a cover."

"Or a stalker," Caro added, eliminating that point before it could be brought up. They had Mr. _Vera Wang_ in custody. A twisted, sick mind; fitting the textbook psychological profile for an inadequate personality perfectly, but nothing more than that.

Butterfield inclined his head in agreement; grateful that his people were starting to focus again, no longer wildly grasping at straws. "Yes, our stalker has nothing to do with this.  His interest wasn't in the President." Determined to steer his operatives' attention back to the familiar patterns of their job, he continued, "There will be another meeting this evening, for the purposes of risk-assessment and scenario projection. All available agents to attend. Eagle’s personal security remains at optimum alert, and his personal escort doubled, even in-house. Anything new to report there?"

"He's not very happy about it. Oh sorry, anything _new_? No." Carlyle's lugubrious tones sent a ripple of amusement through his colleagues. The stories about the President's initial reaction to the increasing of his detail even before the NTSB report had begun to cast its shadow were already bordering on the stuff of legend. Although coming to accept its necessity as the ugly truth continued to unfold, his silent exasperation with the almost total lack of personal space he had experienced ever since was quite obvious to his bodyguards. They secretly sympathized with the man - he hadn't had a private moment in weeks - but there was no way they were letting him out of their sight in these circumstances.  

"Uh..." Knowing the man's feelings, and remembering how he had occasionally rebelled against such restriction in the past, Caro had just had a nasty thought. "Any danger of him ditching his detail again, like he did at the First Lady's birthday party?"

Just about everyone present winced, and more than a few hot glances were flung in her direction. Their collective performance on that night - and more than a few would have willingly sacrificed a week's pay to know how it had happened - was _not_ something they wanted their boss to be reminded of.

Glowering briefly, just to let them know he _hadn't_ forgotten, Butterfield vetoed that concern. "He won't do that." His eyes narrowed for a moment. "We had words. Besides…" He smiled almost wolfishly, causing several of his subordinates to grin in response as they imagined the scene, "... with the increased security, he knows that his chances of ditching us undetected are pretty small right now. And he's not prepared to let us know the secret behind that vanishing trick just yet. He knows that once _we_ know, we've pretty much got him where we want him."

The grins became general at that. Butterfield deliberately gave his people their moment of light-heartedness before reminding them of the sober reality behind their gathering.  "Also, he's fully aware of the gravity of the situation. The President is a responsible man and a family man. He won't take stupid risks. And he wants answers, people. Answers we should be able to provide."

Nobody needed to point out that a meeting was going to take place in the Oval that very morning. More information might be forthcoming, but would it be of any more use than what little they already had? More than one of the agents present cast their eyes down, unable to meet the searching gaze of their Chief.

Yet another sign Butterfield didn't like. "Eyes up and listen to me, people!" he snapped. When he was certain he had their attention, he tempered his voice just a little, but there was still a demanding edge to it. "We do our jobs. We don't need to know _who_ , we don't need to know _why_ or _what_..."

Caro Lindstrom laughed shortly, shaking her head.

Butterfield actually smiled. "Your FBI is showing, Caro."

Swallowing another laugh, she replied evenly, "Sorry, sir. Won't happen again."

Torres snorted, earning a dark look from his former FBI compatriot.

"No. That's good. As long as it _doesn't_ get in the way of your primary job." Butterfield held Caro's gaze, then one by one made slow eye contact with everyone in the room. His next words were clipped and to the point. "The President's _life_ is our job. Let them come. We stop them. Understood?"

A chorus of determined agreement greeted that challenge.

Butterfield nodded. For now, it would have to do.

~ooOoo~

Bartlet led the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs towards the Oval Office at a brisk pace. "I don't care whether it's feasible or not, Fitz," he snapped over his shoulder. "The Intelligence budget has to be good for something.  I want detailed information on any possible suspects in the Marine One investigation, as well as the likely players in the field of black market weapons and nuclear armament sales.  And I want it yesterday."

Admiral Percy Fitzwallace found himself struggling to keep up with the shorter man. Not for the first time, he wondered how a President who had never served a day in uniform could still march at a pace that left professional combatants in despair. At least when he'd been obliged to carry a cane for a few days after the accident... "Sir, I agree with you. We need the information. But our Russian advisors would like to remind you that the troublesome state of that country's governmental, military and law enforcement bureaucracies..."

"I don't care, Fitz. I've heard it all before." Bartlet blew through reception, raising more than a few curious eyebrows, and opened the door to the Oval Office.  

Charlie Young rose hastily from behind his desk and followed them inside. He still didn't understand why, but the President wanted him in on this meeting, maybe for moral support. He wasn't quite comfortable with that. Still, it wasn't his place to question an executive order.

"I refuse to believe that the Russian Mafia, or lone criminal masterminds for that matter, are capable of better intelligence gathering than the US military, sit down everybody," he growled irritably to his already assembled senior staff. "I'll start our meeting in a minute, wherein I have no doubt the Russian situation will arise."

McGarry moved to join Fitzwallace in the center of the office, while the staff resumed their seats on the sofas to each side. "Is this about the latest intelligence reports on our most likely suspects?" He directed the question towards the President, who had halted his own progress behind his desk.  

Dropping a folder onto his blotter, Bartlet remarked acidly, "You could say that. But to me, an intelligence report implies the actual imparting of information. Not taking three pages of verbiage to say 'Sorry, we don't know where this guy is, who he is or what he may be up to.'" He snorted. "In fact, they still can't conclusively link him, if there _is_ a him, or anyone else to the Marine One incident."

McGarry spared a brief glance for his unusually silent and tense colleagues. The _incident_ had been consuming a generous proportion of their attention ever since that nightmare had first been revealed, to say nothing of the truly horrific future possibilities he had spelled out for them only last night. He turned back to the President's military advisor.  "You mean to say there's still nothing?"

Fitzwallace shrugged, uncomfortably aware that he was being put on the spot and in direct line of fire of the President's ire. It couldn't be helped. "I wouldn't go quite that far, Leo. It's true that we have no concrete information on who our suspect may be, but we do have reason to believe that he is in this country, and that he is running active lines of communication with the Russian Mafia both here and back home. To what purpose, we can make an educated guess. And we don't like the answers, especially in view of the President's ultimatum to the Russian government about the inspection teams and their lousy safeguards on nuclear sites and disposal facilities."

"Nobody likes having their profits cut into," McGarry growled. "How certain are we that this is being handled locally?"

Fitzwallace sighed heavily. "Not very. The only thing we are sure of is that whatever money has been spent _hasn't_ come from the standard overseas accounts. There has been no unusual activity on any of the accounts, and taking out the President of the United States would _cost_. Someone's being paid, but for whatever it's worth..."

"Which ain't much."

"... the paymaster is here," Fitzwallace finished, ignoring McGarry's snide commentary. He was getting used to it.

This particular revelation did very little to improve the President's already foul mood.

"Apparently it's official. The Russian Mafia have now added me to that long list of people they would like to see permanently retired from public life," Bartlet commented dryly, settling wearily into the chair behind his desk. Rubbing his eyes, which for some reason even a partial night's sleep hadn't induced to cooperate, he glanced up at the blurred faces staring at him expectantly. 

Expecting what? He didn't have the answers any more than his advisor's did, and wasn't any happier with the gaping holes left over. Blinking, he noted curiously that Toby and Leo, usually presenting a united, centered front at meetings like this, had placed themselves on opposite sides of his desk. Any other time and Bartlet would have thought it a flanking maneuver, but with both men studiously avoiding direct eye contact with each other - and failing miserably at the attempt to _not_ look like they were doing so - the conclusion was obvious.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one to have noticed either. Everyone was uncharacteristically silent. Sam looked like he wanted to find a hole to crawl into. Josh had stationed himself as far away from the two men as possible - probably for a quick escape if needed - and C.J. had that expression on her face like she wanted to bang heads together.

The President was tempted to let her. As _if_ he didn't already have enough problems. _What the hell was going on there?_

Bartlet sighed, settling back in his chair. Young stepped discreetly closer, not crowding him, but within easy range should the man require anything.

The Chief of Staff had stiffened at the President's last statement. He swung back to Fitzwallace.  "What does he mean? Did some new information emerge at the briefing?"

"No more than you already know, Leo." The Admiral glowered, starting to feel just a little picked on. "The intelligence reports turned up very little. But they did pass on persistent rumors that the organized crime groups we have focused our attention on within Russia are extremely unhappy about the pressure the President has brought to bear about the lax controls in the arms and nuclear sectors. And that they may have conveyed this unhappiness to our suspect's organization, with the suggestion that certain steps be considered."

McGarry froze in shock. It wasn't any different from what he and Nancy had told the President last night. Or what he'd already passed on to the senior staff. But somehow, having Fitz confirm it gave the nightmare a harsher reality. He winced when he heard Toby Ziegler's voice rise in angry disbelief, finally giving into the fury that had been deflected by other issues, however debatable, brought up last night.

"Are you trying to tell us that a criminal organization has decided to place a contract on the President of the United States?" The Communications Director's voice was almost trembling with barely suppressed outrage. Of all the staffers, Ziegler knew he had what might have politely been termed the stormiest professional relationship with Josiah Bartlet, but for all that he was fiercely protective of the office of the President, and equally loyal to the man who held it.

Those same emotions were reflected in the faces of the rest of the senior staff.

Fitzwallace shook his head curtly. "We have no proof of any such communication, but our agents and sources say that there is considerable agitation in the Russian underworld, and a strong rumor to that effect persists.  _Something_ has gone down. I don't think we can afford to ignore..."

_"Ignore?!"_ Ziegler's volume rose to a dangerously high level.

McGarry winced again. "Calm down, Toby", he advised, for the first time that morning making eye contact with the Communications Director.

The exchange did not go unnoticed by the President, who was beginning to wonder if he was actually going to have to play referee on top of everything else. The tension between the two men was thick and heavy.

"I am calm!" Ziegler stopped, casting his eyes down and forcing himself to take several deep breaths. "Leo, this is beyond serious. We're talking about the office of President of the United States. That these... _people_ could even consider a course of action like this... the ramifications are horrific. Democracy and government just doesn't operate like this.  _Can't_ operate like this."

"Sometimes it does." The President's voice was so low as to be almost inaudible, but it froze everyone in place. He looked up to meet their uncomfortable gaze and couldn't help a twisted smile when they looked away. The unspoken subject, the non-secret that no one dared raise although everyone _knew_ what had really happened with Shareef. He trusted them all - but how did they regard him now, knowing what they did?  

"Do you believe in _karma_ , Toby?" he asked quietly, not really knowing what he expected in response.

McGarry glanced away quickly.

Ziegler cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on his shoes. "Mr. President..."

"Never mind." Bartlet waved him away, feeling a little guilty. It had been an unfair question, but the weariness that still weighed on him, despite the respite of last night, seemed to turn his thoughts down such dark paths with greater and greater ease these days. He sighed gently; wishing he could banish the near constant fatigue that seemed to bleed away all energy and leave him feeling burdened down in both body and spirit.

Making an effort to shake the malaise, he pulled his chair closer to his desk and held out his hand. On cue, as always, Charlie handed him the day’s schedule and stepped back again, granting him some personal space. Putting on his glasses, Bartlet flipped the folder open. Then he paused, his attention caught by an item on his desk. Puzzled, he leaned closer.

It was a chess piece, more specifically, a bishop, resting neatly on a white envelope that had been placed slightly off-center on his blotter.

Bartlet felt his mood lighten somewhat and he essayed a slight chuckle. "Looking for a rematch, Toby?" he asked, a smile indicating his approval of the gesture and its timing.

Ziegler blinked. "Sir?"

"Another chess match?" Bartlet pointed to the piece in front of him. "Aren't you tired of getting beaten?"

"Not guilty, sir." Ziegler's mind was plainly on other things, and he forced himself to concentrate on this new topic. "I didn't leave it there. And you don't beat me _that_ often," he added with an indignant huff.

"You keep that thought, Toby." He turned to the other likely suspect. "Sam?"

"Not guilty either, Mr. President. Unlike Toby, I _do_ get tired of being beaten. Especially when it's not so much a defeat as an outright massacre."

Bartlet couldn't help a short laugh at that. He _had_ been showing off to the young man just a little. But it had been a good evening. One of the few good ones he could remember in recent times. "Charlie? Do you know who left this?"

"No, Mr. President." Young stepped forward again, exchanging a puzzled glance with McGarry. The preparations for the morning had been hectic, and without a senior secretary in the outer office to help with the chaos, more than a few things were being missed. He didn't like it. "It wasn't here when I left last night, and this is the first Oval meeting of the day."

"Hmmm." Distractedly, Bartlet turned his attention back to the piece. It really was a lovely thing, incredibly detailed and intricately molded. He reached out and picked it up, raising it to examine the fine detail on the surface. His fingers recognized the smooth warmth of ivory and the yellowed patina of the obviously hand-carved material indicated a great age. This was no store bought gift.

"Is anybody going to 'fess up?" he asked, taking his glasses off and rolling the piece speculatively between his fingers. 

He laughed heartily at the guilty looks they exchanged. Only this group of people would feel at fault for leaving an anonymous gift. Where was the protocol for that? The gesture touched him deeply, and the symbolism, while curious, indicated a familiarity he found comforting. Sometimes, it was the little things that made a difference.

McGarry, dismissing the incident and the mystery, turned back towards the assembled staffers. He wasn't in the mood for games. Getting back to the business at hand, he said curtly, "Okay, you all know why we're here... " He broke off abruptly, staggering a bit as Fitzwallace suddenly pushed past him.  

"Mr. President, put it down!"

"What?" Startled at the uncharacteristically commanding outburst, Bartlet looked up from his examination. Instinctively, he began to release his hold on the chess piece, dropping it from suddenly stiff fingers. "Fitz? Why on earth... "

~ooOoo~

"So..." Leo's morning schedule in hand, Margaret let the rather loaded beginning to her question trail off and perched herself on the edge of Donna's desk. "Is the pizza embargo still on?"

Donna looked up from her work, wrinkling her nose with profound disgust. "You mean the command from on high that I never bring the substance into any part of the White House ever again?" When Margaret nodded, she picked up her phone and waved it like a club. "Josh is _still_ on the warpath. He even worked up enough technical skill to wipe out all my speed dial sets."

Slamming the phone back into its cradle, Donna pouted just a little. "Is that fair? I mean, how am I supposed to survive this... _zoo_ without pizza?"

"Well, he's probably afraid..."

"I know what he's afraid of." Donna glared at Margaret; not at all happy she was still paying for her mistakes. She should have known better. Josh was like a dog with a juicy bone over her culinary indiscretion with the President.  "It was an executive order!"

"You keep saying that."

"It's true!"

"C.J. ordered pizza," Margaret offered helpfully. "He hasn't banned it entirely."

"Like Josh would even _think_ about telling her what she can or can't do."

"That's true," Margaret agreed sagely. "He does have some survival instincts. Leo's enjoying the show, though." 

She didn't bother to point out that her boss showed no inclination towards stopping the ongoing battle of wills either. He was having too much fun. Donna didn't need to hear that, though. Telling her about the full extent of _executive_ amusement being found at her expense would only make matters worse.

Donna scowled. "He would." She hadn't got any support from that quarter. Luckily, the First Lady seemed to have taken the whole incident with totally unexpected good humor. It was about the only thing she felt safe on.

Josh on the other hand was becoming a royal pain in the nether regions. "I'm going to have to do something about this," she declared ominously.

"It's about time."

Smiling sweetly up at her, Donna asked, "You wanna help?"

Blinking her eyes innocently and smiling just as sweetly in return, Margaret replied, "May I?"

"I wouldn't think of leaving you out..."

She never got any further. The echoing noise, loud, sharp and totally out of place, snapped through the bullpen like a gunshot. Minds and bodies reacted like it _was_ a gunshot. Margaret jumped off the edge of the desk and Donna was already out of her seat. Both women had a moment to exchanged frightened looks before a voice boomed out.

"Everyone, stay where you are!"

The Secret Service Agents, always so unobtrusive and invisible, swarmed through the bullpen, weapons out and ready. A few stationed themselves at all the exits, glaring forbiddingly at the people milling uncertainly within. 

Security crashes they were used to; the staff knew how to handle them. They didn't need to be told that this was horribly different.

Donna watched with growing fear as a larger group of agents stampeded - it was the only way her shocked mind could describe it - through the room, dodging around the desks and out the other side. Headed towards where?

Her breath caught in her throat. "The Oval," she gasped.

Clutching her file folder like a shield, all Margaret could do was nod dumbly.

~ooOoo~

Everybody jumped violently at the sudden explosion, and then swung about in alarm, as almost simultaneously there came an abrupt, shocked cry from the President, echoed by a gasp from Young.

Heart in his throat, McGarry hurled himself around the edge of the desk, Fitzwallace on his heels. He reached for the President. "Sir?  Are you all right?" 

Bartlet had flung himself back into his chair with his hands to his face. To McGarry's horror he saw that the collar and front of the man's shirt was stained with blood, and more trickled slowly from between the fingers covering his face. He couldn't tell whether the blood on the President's left hand had come from the wounds on his face, or the damage it had taken from the initial explosion.

Muffled gasps of horror from the staffers were drowned out by the sound of all four doors into the Oval Office crashing open, causing its already unnerved occupants to startle anew, as about half a dozen Secret Service agents poured into the room, weapons at the ready.

McGarry and Fitzwallace, both combat veterans, managed to ignore the influx and the babble of shouted instructions and reports, bending their attention to their Chief Executive, who was breathing heavily with his hands still raised before him.

McGarry gently reached for his wrists, only to have the man pull abruptly away from him with a small grunt of pain. "Please sir, I need to see." Bartlet seemed to relax a bit at the sound of his voice, and he asked, "How badly are you injured?"

"God, Leo. It hurts." The President's voice was tight with strain and his breathing was ragged. He slowly lowered his hands, blinking and squinting as tiny rivulets of blood ran down his cheeks and into his eyes from numerous small cuts and gashes on his forehead and face.

McGarry pulled out a handkerchief and gently began to run it over Bartlet's face, only to stop abruptly at a sharp, indrawn hiss of pain from his friend. He nearly jumped when Fitzwallace's hand came down on his wrist.

"Hold it, Leo. Those are shrapnel wounds. There could still be fragments embedded in some of the cuts. Wait for a medic."  

Galvanized, the Chief of Staff swung around. "Charlie! Get an ambulance..." He broke off abruptly. "Oh, hell! Charlie, you all right?"

"Charlie?" The President's voice pitched high with alarm. He squinted around for his aide, obviously half-blind from the blood still running over his brow and into his eyes.  "Are you hurt?" He attempted to rise, but was easily thwarted by Fitzwallace's firm hand pressing him back into his chair.

"I'm fine, Mr. President." The young man's voice was shaky and he held a handkerchief to his face. "Something just caught me on the cheek is all. It's nothing."

"Leo?"

Obeying the unspoken appeal and knowing if he didn't give Bartlet a satisfactory report they were going to have a _very_ uncooperative Chief Executive on their hands, McGarry stepped forward and critically examined the cut on Young's cheek. "He's telling you the truth, sir. A shallow cut on his cheek. Probably stings a bit, but I don't think it'll even need stitches."

Satisfied, McGarry nodded to a pale and trembling C.J., who gently took Young by the arm and steered him to a place beside her on the sofa.

"Good." The word sighed out gently on a long breath of relief as the President sagged back into his chair, cautiously cradling his bloodied left hand against his chest. Two agents had moved in behind his chair, weapons still drawn but no longer raised; the remainder took up station by the wide open doors.

Ziegler shouldered his way past the agents at the desk. "Leo?  The ambulance..."

One of the agents looked up from where he had been communing with his palm mike. "An ambulance has been requested, Mr. Ziegler. The call is going out from the main switchboard now."

"Good!"  McGarry swung back to his friend and crouched down beside him. Bartlet was pale and trembling slightly, but his eyes seemed mercifully undamaged, although his face and even one of his eyelids were peppered with abrasions. But his hand...  

McGarry took one look and winced.  Bartlet's left hand, the one that had been holding the bishop, was coated in blood, the flesh torn and splinters of the ivory still projecting from some of the wounds. "What happened?" The question was knee-jerk. He'd seen it all, heard the explosion and could see the results.

He just wanted to hear his friend's voice.

"I'm not sure." The President's voice was still rough, and he couldn't seem to stop blinking. He took a deep, calming breath. "The chess piece. I think it exploded. I guess I was lucky; it might have still been in my hand, but I'd just begun to drop it." Twisting his head slightly, he regarded Fitzwallace, blinking against the stinging blood running into his eyes. "You knew?"

The Admiral shook his head grimly, still keeping one hand on his Commander in Chief's shoulder. "No, sir.  I didn't. But in view of recent events, when something unexplained is found in the Oval Office, I'm going to err on the side of paranoia." He regarded the bloody visage of the man before him with regret. "It's a pity my paranoia didn't kick in a little sooner."

Bartlet drew in another shaky breath and accepted the handkerchief that Fitzwallace held out to him with his good hand, mopping gingerly at his eyes. Not a good idea. Wincing at the stinging pain, he looked up at the ring of somewhat blurry faces circling him, both staffers and agents.

"You managed fine. Thank you, Fitz."

"Sir." Fitzwallace shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with the praise and the thanks, however heartfelt. Turning to the Chief of Staff, he tried to get the man's attention. "Leo."

McGarry didn't seem to have heard him. Still at the President's side, his entire concentration was focused on the injured man.

"Leo!" Louder this time, earning a blinking, dazed response. "I have to tell the NSA, _now_ , before she implodes."

McGarry's only response was a distracted nod.

At a bit of a loss, Fitzwallace silently entreated the President for permission to leave.

"Go," Bartlet told him shakily. "The last thing we need is Nancy going off. And gather the Joint Chiefs, Mr. Chairman. We don't need them going off as well."

Fitzwallace had no problem agreeing with that assessment. Without another word, he strode purposefully towards the nearest exit. Not exactly keen on being trampled in his wake, the agent on guard quietly stepped out of his way.

The agent who had reassured Ziegler about the ambulance came around to stand by Bartlet's side. "Sir, we need to get you out of here and secured back in the Residence until we can confirm what happened here, and how."  

On the President's other side, McGarry protested vigorously. "We're not moving the President until he's been checked out by a doctor. His eyes may need washing out. Those cuts have to be tended to. And that hand is going to need stitches, at the very least."  Looking down at his clearly shaken friend, and aware of the man's air of dazed disorientation, he ordered, "Direct them to send a doctor to the Oval Office. We'll meet the ambulance at the Residence, if he says the President can safely go that far."

"Cancel that!"

McGarry swung around as the order was grated out in a panting but firm voice. Judging by his breathless state, Ron Butterfield had sprinted the entire distance from the security central command room. He'd made good time too. Or perhaps he hadn't had so far to come. In recent weeks, the Security Chief was rarely to be found far from his main responsibility. Judging by the emotions currently tightening his features into grim lines, the Chief of Staff had a feeling that the President would be chafing under an even shorter leash in future.

"No ambulance," Butterfield snapped the order at his subordinate who, after pausing to blink briefly, hastily turned away to address his palm mike again.

"No ambulance?" Lyman's protest was almost a squeak of disbelief. "What the hell..."

Butterfield nailed him with a glare. "There is a perfectly adequate operating theater in the basement, fully stocked and ready for emergencies. If it's needed, we go there." Sweeping the room with his eyes and letting all present see the rage smoldering in their depths, he reiterated,  "No ambulance."

"But... the President!" Seaborn stepped forward impulsively. "He needs a doctor."  

Barely sparing the young man a glance, the Security Chief brushed past McGarry to drop into a crouch beside the President's chair. "And he'll get one," he shot over his shoulder.  Turning back, he softened his tones and addressed his charge gently. "Sir? I'm sorry to ask this of you, but do you feel up to moving? We need to get you to the Residence. You can't stay here."

Bartlet regarded his bodyguard as best he could through eyelashes encrusted with blood. The reminder of the medical facilities in the basement had done little to calm his already shredded nerves. _Only to be used in emergencies._ He supposed this counted. Still, he had to ask, "Not the hospital, Ron?"

"No, sir. Not unless the doctor deems it absolutely necessary. Admiral Hackett is on his way to the Residence now. He'll be waiting for us." Butterfield regarded his protectee anxiously, trying to gauge the man's physical condition, and his ability to absorb what was being told to him. "I can't allow you to leave the White House in these circumstances, sir. We're in total lockdown. Nothing's going in or out. You'll be safer and better protected in the Residence."

"Afraid they'll try again?"  Bartlet half-joked, shifting awkwardly in his chair.

"Yes, sir."

The President looked up sharply at that flat declaration. He studied the agent's grim visage for a moment before dropping his gaze.  His shoulders slumped and he unleashed a low sigh. "Okay."

Butterfield glanced around swiftly to check if anyone else was going to waste his precious time with fruitless protests. It looked like he didn't have to worry. Lyman and Seaborn were standing together wearing stunned expressions. On the sofa, C.J. Cregg was gently patting at the no longer bleeding cut on Young's face, but her shoulders were tense and her face drawn into strained lines. He let his gaze rest on her for a brief moment.

C.J. looked up, catching Butterfield's searching glance, the unasked question he wouldn't dare voice. She was on the verge of giving him an answer, and then bit back the words. All she gave him was a quick nod, then returned her attention back to Charlie.

Butterfield's jaw tightened at the brief, haunted expression in her eyes. Too much violence following too soon after Donovan, and again someone she cared for was the target. But she could handle it. Of that he was certain.

McGarry and Ziegler were standing next to the desk, perfect studies in grimness. Butterfield allowed himself to relax just a bit, if not completely. If anyone fully grasped the implications both of this incident and of his exchange with the President, he would have expected it to be these two men. McGarry still looked like he wanted to protest, but he was holding himself in check and the normally cool Communications Director appeared shaken to the core. They could consider the consequences of this later. Right now, he had more immediate concerns.

Carefully touching his President's upper arm, painfully conscious of the subtle tremors vibrating through the limb beneath his hand, he asked quietly, "Sir? Can you stand?"

"I think so." Bartlet mopped again at his eyes with Fitzwallace's now ruined handkerchief. He made a mental note to replace it. At least only the deeper facial cuts were still bleeding, but it was amazing how irritatingly uncomfortable drying blood could feel. He awkwardly hitched himself forward in his chair in a struggle to rise, only to drop back with a hiss of pain. "Damn! My hand..."

"Sit still a minute, sir." Butterfield gently took the injured limb and laid it back against the President's chest. Holding it there, he fumbled one-handed to loosen his own tie.  "Can anyone..."  

Ziegler stepped up quickly beside him, his own tie dangling from his outstretched hand.  

The Security Chief took it with a quick nod of thanks, and swiftly wrapped it over the President's left arm and shoulder, across his back and up under his right arm, lightly pinning his damaged hand in place against his chest. Stepping back, he slid a hand under the man's undamaged arm and carefully eased the President out of his chair.

Leaning heavily on his tall bodyguard's arm, Bartlet stood swaying slightly, waiting desperately for the room to swing back into focus and willing his legs not to fold under him. Following Butterfield's gentle pressure, he turned towards the door onto the portico, only to wobble violently for a moment. He steadied himself and smiled reassuringly at McGarry and Ziegler, who had both lunged forward to catch him. "It's okay, fellas."

Ziegler looked skeptical, but stepped back in acknowledgement of the President's unspoken wishes. McGarry wasn't so easily pacified however, and carefully grasped Bartlet's free arm, mindful of the injured hand. Security lock-down and Butterfield's fears be damned, it was on his tongue to demand that the President be removed to a hospital.

Butterfield sensed this, and catching the Chief of Staff's eye over Bartlet's shoulder, he said softly, "Leo, he cannot leave the White House."

McGarry's only response was to glare accusingly at the agent.

Bartlet stiffened at that ominous declaration. He hadn't missed the hidden meaning, even if his overwhelmed Chief of Staff had. Leaning a little more on to his friend's arm, he said, "Listen to him, Leo."

McGarry didn't want to, but had to admit that he was outnumbered. Taking a firmer hold on the President's arm, he shook his head with frustration, duty fighting a losing battle with his concern.

His old friend sighed in exasperation at the added support, but wasn't really in a position to protest. And he was forced to grudgingly admit, if only to himself, that he needed the support. Smiling at his Chief of Staff, the President asked, "Shall we go? I'm sure Hackett's at the Residence by now, which means Abbey knows what's happened. And if we dawdle in the circumstances..."

Even Butterfield winced at the mental images this conjured up. Carefully, he and McGarry began to move the President towards the door, the other agents closing in around on all sides.  

With evident reluctance, C.J. stood up from the sofa and stepped forward.  "Leo..."

"Not now, C.J.," McGarry snapped, tension and worry simmering dangerously close to the surface.  

"Yes, now." The Press Secretary's tone was apologetic, but unyielding. "Please, Leo. It's important."

The Chief of Staff locked gazes with her for an instance, his angry and anxious, hers concerned but remaining implacable. Finally he sighed and pressed his friend's arm gently. "Sir, I'm sorry. I'll catch you up in just a moment. Toby, would you...?"

The Communications Director stepped forward swiftly and slid his own hand under the President's arm, and was rewarded with a slightly twisted, ironic smile from the man.  The group passed slowly out through the portico doors and along the walk towards the Residence. A phalanx of agents converged on the slow moving trio, blocking them from view and harm.

McGarry watched them go with a strained expression before turning back to the remaining staffers.  "Charlie, go after them.  You need someone to have a look at that cut.  Now," he snapped at C.J. as the young man hastened out. "Make it fast."

C.J. exchanged worried glances with Seaborn and Lyman. "The press, Leo. What are we going to do? You stressed last night how important it was to keep this whole mess in-house, but after today... we can't keep this quiet. There was an explosion in the Oval Office for heaven's sake!"

"To say nothing of the fact that anyone who so much as catches a glimpse of the President over the next few days is going to have more questions than we can handle," Seaborn pointed out. "No matter how good a repair job Hackett does, he can't conceal those cuts, and that hand looks to be an awful mess. We can't brush this away, Leo. His riding his bike into a tree was a front page story!"

"And then there's the whole security alert," Lyman chimed in. "We're in lockdown, and agents are on high alert all over the White House. To say nothing of the fact that someone must have _heard_ the explosion. And a call for an ambulance went out from the Oval office. Any reporter with a police scanner could have picked that up once it passed the switchboard."

"Oh, God!"  C.J. sank back onto the sofa with a groan. "The Press Room is probably filling up right now. Leo, I'm good but there's no way that I can spin this! We've got to come up with something, and fast!"

McGarry ran a hand over the back of his head distractedly. "I know, I know. Look C.J., let's just find out what the damage is and then we'll see. In the meantime, the three of you get together and come up with some options for me."

"Leo!" For the first time some of the emotion she'd been holding in check broke through C.J.'s control. 

"Later!"  McGarry's patience was close to snapping; his entire anxious attention focused on the man currently being shepherded towards the Residence. "We'll discuss it as soon as Toby and I get back from the Residence. Be in my office in one hour. And C.J.? Hold the press off until then. I don't care how."

The three youngest members of the senior staff watched in dismay as the Chief of Staff abandoned them and departed through the portico door at a pace just short of a run. Glancing back and forth, each waited for the other to say something first.

The Press Secretary to the White House sighed heavily, turning a grim look on the two spin-doctors she had left. Josh had his _crushed puppy_ look going full force and Sam was standing at near-perfect military parade rest. The sight was depressing. 

"Come on boys, you heard him. Time to earn our government paychecks. We've got to come up with something in the next five minutes that the press won't immediately laugh back in our faces." She watched them shift uneasily and couldn't resist adding, perhaps just a bit maliciously, "And not to put any pressure on you or anything, but if you don't produce something good for me to take out there, I quit. For real this time. _You_ can take on the White House press corps all by yourselves."

~ooOoo~

Abbey settled back into her chair with a slight groan and wondered if she would ever fully be able to relax again. Her muscles seemed stiff and unnatural, and she felt as if she hadn't properly taken a deep breath since she and Jed had talked last evening. Of course, it wasn't every day you had to deal with the fact that not only had an attempt been made on your husband's life, but that the same threat continued to shadow him even now.

Someone wanted Jed dead, and it seemed as if they would not stop until they had achieved their objective. The very thought caused fear to surge within her, turning her limbs to water. 

Oh, he was one of the best-guarded men in the world, but _they_ had tried already, and come so close to succeeding. And all it would take was one sufficiently determined and reckless person in a crowd. The President couldn't govern from an isolated fortress. Nor would Jed's own personality permit it. Both of them had discussed the possibility of assassination before, acknowledged that the Secret Service took excellent care, and that all else was left in the hands of God. There was nothing they could do about it but trust in those hands, and in their protectors.

Abbey scowled to herself in firm resolve. She might not be able to protect Jed against that particular threat, but she could and _would_ do everything possible to ensure that her stubborn husband did not leave himself open to attack on another front. Leo's concern the night before, coming on top of her own observations, had only reinforced her determination to try to get her husband to slow down before he drove himself into the ground.

Leo would help, she knew. Charlie too, along with the entire senior staff. All she had to do was ask. And she was going to need all the allies she could muster. Even last night's ultimatum had proved considerably less successful than she had hoped. Leo had been right; one single night of rest wasn't going to solve the increasingly visible problem of Jed's ongoing exhaustion, but it _would_ have helped.

Would have... if he had only obeyed her. She had returned to their bedroom well after midnight - her talk with Leo and pondering on the threat had left her unsettled and wandering the corridors for some time - only to find Jed dozing, propped up in bed, telephone on the mattress beside him and the bedspread strewn with files.

Silently raging against his obduracy, she had managed to settle her weary husband back under the covers and had joined him, gently stroking his hair until he finally slept. But he had risen even earlier than usual, muttering something about a staff meeting in the Oval, to be preceded by a briefing with Fitzwallace.

Tonight he would sleep through the night. Abbey was determined on that, even if she had to ask Admiral Hackett to consider prescribing something, and unplug the wretched telephone. Jed had never been the best of sleepers, but this broken napping was taking its toll. Well, tonight she would see that he slept. After that... 

Maybe she could persuade Leo to clear Jed's schedule for a few days, get him up to the farm. He could usually relax there. It was his home, the one place where he could pretend for a little while that he didn't have to make life-affecting decisions for millions of people on a daily basis.

The First Lady's reflections were interrupted by the bedroom door being abruptly flung open and the two agents who had been on duty outside bursting through. She looked up, startled, then paled. There were no prizes for guessing the reason for the intrusion. A security alert. Jed...

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Agent Daniels was tense. "We have notification of a security breach and orders to secure your safety. Could you remain here, please?"

Abbey nodded, heart pounding but outwardly calm. She and Jed were becoming as accustomed as it was possible to get to such violent interruptions. There seemed to have been a great many in recent weeks. All quickly and unthreateningly resolved, but bad for the nerves all the same. She sat quietly. No point badgering for details. These two probably hadn't any concrete information yet. They would let her know as soon as they did.

A couple of minutes of strained and mutually uncomfortable silence were finally broken by the hasty arrival of her Head of Detail. Abbey greeted him with relief. "Emil, what's happening?"

Agent Torres' expression suggested that in no way was he looking forward to answering that question. "Ma'am, I'm afraid that reports indicate there was some kind of explosion in the Oval Office within the last few minutes."

Watching the face of the woman before him blanch in shock, he hastened to add, "It was a small explosion, and there have been no fatalities, or critical injuries."

The First Lady gave a little gasp of relief. "No injuries?  Jed's all right?"

Torres winced slightly. "Not exactly, ma'am. There were no _critical_ injuries."

"What do you mean?" Relief had vanished again, and Abbey was on her feet and practically in the unfortunate agent's face. "Jed's hurt?  Is he hurt? How bad is it?"

Helplessly wishing that one of his colleagues would have pity and pass on those answers, Agent Torres struggled to make sense of the din on his radio. "Ma'am, I'm afraid the President _was_ hurt. I don't know the extent of his injuries at the moment, but I can tell you he is conscious..."

"You don't know..." Fear and anger blended themselves in Abbey's tones.  Determinedly, she moved forward, forcing the agent into instinctive retreat. "I'm going down there."

Agent Torres closed his eyes and briefly meditated on the Four Last Things before moving to block the First Lady's progress. "Ma'am, I'm very sorry but my orders are explicit. I cannot let you go into a danger zone. Please. Wait here."

Usually, Abbey yielded to Secret Service requests with the minimum of protest. They were just doing their job after all, and both she and Jed were always only too painfully aware what that job might one day require of the men and women who undertook to guard the lives of America's First Couple. Plus, she felt that making their lives as easy as possible was the least she could do to make up for the occasional juvenile stunts Jed pulled on his own detail. 

But not now, not in these circumstances and after the revelations of recent days. "Emil..."

"Please, ma'am."  The agent's tone was sympathetic, but inflexible.

Abbey glared at him for an instance, tears of frustration and fear welling in her eyes, before abruptly turning away to perch rigidly on the edge of her armchair. 

Torres fidgeted uncomfortably, before whipping his hand up to his earpiece. Finally, some news he could give to the anxious woman. "Ma'am?"

Abbey's head snapped up hopefully. "Yes, Emil?"

"Ma'am, Agent Butterfield is escorting the President to the Residence. The President is ambulatory, but has sustained injuries to the face and one hand." Torres frowned as he concentrated on the voice in his ear. "Admiral Hackett has been summoned, and is entering the Residence as we speak.  He should be here..."

"Now," Abbey interrupted him, rising to greet the tall, uniformed medic who had just come through the door. "Robert, it's good to see you."

"Ma'am," The naval doctor nodded briskly and courteously to the First Lady.

Now back on rotation as attending physician to the President, Robert Hackett felt that he had forged a mutually respectful relationship with Josiah Bartlet's wife and doctor. Honestly regarding himself as an essentially good humored and intelligent man, his matter-of-fact attitude had helped smooth over any awkwardness between him and his patient over the former's non-disclosure of his medical condition when Hackett had first been obliged to attend on an executive collapse.

Likewise, his innate professionalism had recognized the medical skills of the First Lady, and he hadn't permitted her problems with the medical boards to alter his attitude towards her as a fellow physician in any way.

Now was not the time for social niceties, however. Dumping his satchel and medical tray on the table top, he stripped off his overcoat, demanding of Torres, "Any news yet on the President's arrival?"

Torres again pressed a finger to his earpiece. "The President has just entered the Residence, Admiral. He has a full security detail, and is being assisted by Agent Butterfield and Mr. Ziegler."

"Well, at least he's still on his feet." Dissatisfaction evident in every gesture, Hackett snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and began to unpack dressings and instruments from his bag.  "I still think I should have seen him before he was moved..."

"Security procedure..."

"Yes, yes." Hackett waved down the agent impatiently. "I _do_ know how these things work.  And I trust Ron Butterfield's judgment. He wouldn't have moved the President, however precarious the situation, if he thought it would be dangerous for him. I'm just saying that, from a medical standpoint, the position is less than ideal."

Abbey cleared her throat awkwardly. In the wake of recent events, she had sometimes felt quite tentative about offering any opinions or advice on her husband's health to his attending physicians. But concern and fear overcame her hesitancy, and Hackett had gone out of his way in recent times to let her know that he still considered her a valued colleague, especially for filling in any blanks his occasionally less-than-cooperative and always reluctant patient might leave him with. "Robert?  Will you be treating Jed here?  You won't be taking him to Bethesda?"

"No, ma'am. Not unless the nature of his injuries makes in-house treatment seem an unacceptable risk." The Head of White House security had also been insistent that only the Admiral attend, no assisting medics till _all_ security checks had been seen to. His paranoia seemed a bit excessive and Hackett had nearly balked at that, but given what he'd been told of the injuries and knowing the First Lady would certainly be present, reluctantly agreed. For now. "Ron is particularly anxious that the President remain at a secure location, considering the circumstances."

"Yes." Abbey nodded, the panic once again beginning to rise. Ever since the NTSB report, the _circumstances_ had seemed to ensure that Jed's always-precious freedom would be even further circumscribed. Just one more factor to wear on his temper and nerves.

Much as her professional instincts might balk at the idea of Jed not receiving the full attention of a hospital staff - even with the miniature hospital in the basement - she could understand Ron's caution. Right now though, she wanted nothing more than to have her husband there in front of her, so she could wrap him in her arms and shield him from those who sought to hurt him.

She didn't have long to wait. Within the minute, there was an audible flurry from the corridor, and the doors opened to admit a strained and silent Charlie Young. Abbey rose, alarmed by the sight of the thin laceration on the aide's face. "Charlie, are you all right?"

The young man scarcely glanced at her. "Yes, ma'am." He stepped aside to allow the group behind him to enter.

Immediately, and rather shamefully, all thoughts of the President's body-man were dashed from Abbey's mind, and she stepped forward, hands impulsively extended, to meet her husband.  Relief at having him here at last warred with shock over his appearance, and the now ever-present dread surged anew.

Jed Bartlet entered his bedroom unsteadily, supported on one side by the stern Butterfield. Toby Ziegler cautiously grasped his left elbow, trying to exert enough pressure to hold the man erect while avoiding jolting the hand bound against his chest.

The President's face was masked in blood, still trickling down to be absorbed by his collar. The front of his shirt was also soaked crimson at the spot where his mangled hand rested.  Aware of the dramatic picture he presented he looked up, blinking through blood-sticky lashes, to meet his wife's horrified regard.

An attempt to smile reassuringly was aborted with a wince as cut lips protested. "Hi, Abbey. I seem have got a bit of a hangnail here..." Awkwardly, he indicated his torn hand. "Think you could take a look?"

_Oops._ Clearly humor had been the wrong note to strike. Bartlet watched with some apprehension as his wife's expression darkened with irritation. On the plus side, he had achieved his objective of reassuring her panic. It was just a pity he hadn't been able to manage a more positive mood swing. _'Pissed Abbey'_ wasn't really much better than _'panicked Abbey'_ , not from his front row target position. Still, being wounded had to offer some protection, right?

Apparently it did, for Abbey managed to close her lips over the exasperated retort struggling to escape them. A suspicious curve formed at one corner of her mouth. The vexation briefly smothered her anxiety, enabling her to fall back into the old, familiar patterns.

Darting into the bathroom, she emerged with two large bath towels. "Toby, Ron. Bring him over here," she directed briskly, spreading the towels over the pillows and eiderdown of the bed. "That's right, lay him back. Carefully," she added sternly as the two men eased their President into a sitting position on the bed.

Butterfield gently supported the man's head back onto the pillow as Ziegler lifted his legs onto the mattress. Both men then withdrew slightly, to join Young in anxious and useless vigil at the foot of the bed.

Abbey bent over her husband, brushing the slightly damp hair back from his forehead and attempting to assess the damage to his face and neck. It looked messy, but not as bad as she had feared. His hand though... she swallowed hard, how had he managed to avoid losing any fingers?

Yet, somehow he had. The flesh was torn and practically flayed on his palm, but the hand itself seemed basically intact.  She reached to loosen the tie holding it in place - then froze.  With a mixture of apology, discomfiture and frustration, she turned to the uniformed man hovering behind her. "I beg your pardon, Robert. I didn't mean to keep you from your patient." God, but that was hard to say!

Since her decision to give up her license, she had had to curb her automatic reflexes towards her husband, knowing that she could not be a doctor to him now. The trouble was that she had been both wife and doctor to Jed for most of their married lives. The two roles were so intertwined that she wasn't sure it was possible to separate them.

For now at least though, she wasn't going to have to. The observant Hackett held out a pair of latex gloves, setting a medical swab, a bottle of sterile water and a small pair of tweezers on the bed beside her. When she looked up at him, startled and grateful, he smiled sympathetically.

"Dr. Bartlet, perhaps you would start working on the President's face? I'll tend to his hand."  Bending his head towards hers, he murmured quietly, "I think he would appreciate your attention, ma'am."

_'So would I.'_ Gratefully, Abbey snapped on the gloves and leaned over her husband's head, using the swab and water to gently wipe away the blood still trickling from the deeper facial wounds and delicately extracting tiny fragments of debris with the tweezers.

Clinically, she began to assess the damage. The wounds were clearing out fairly well. At least two were going to require one or two stitches, but fortunately the shrapnel pieces had been so small that for the most part the damage was a matter of depth rather than surface area. A fairly copious quantity of sticking plaster should take care of the rest. Jed would find shaving interesting for some time to come, though. And C.J. was going to have a fit when she saw the damage. Abbey wagered that the White House press corps would find presidential photo opportunities severely curtailed in the immediate future.

Hackett had seized a pillow and was using it to raise the President's hand as he delicately maneuvered the fingers and inspected the deeply impacted fragments among the ripped flesh of the man's palm. From the way Jed was subtly flinching, Abbey knew the exploration was far from painless, and it was going to get worse before it got better.

Holding the wounded hand firmly by the wrist, Hackett regarded his patient intently. "Mr. President?"

Bartlet blinked slowly, turning his gaze to the medic.

"Before we go any further..."

" _We_?" the President replied dryly, an arched eyebrow indicating the inevitable sarcastic mood swing. "There's a _we_ here?"

"Jed," Abbey warned him softly. "The sooner you cooperate, the sooner _we_ can get this over with."

Bartlet made no attempt to hide his annoyance and merely grunted. 

Rolling her eyes, more than a bit pleased he still had the capacity to be grouchy and contrary, Abbey gently turned his head to one side. "Good boy," she murmured fondly. The glare he shot her from lidded eyes pleased her even more.

Hackett, well used to this, took tighter hold of the man's wrist. "This is going to hurt, sir, but I need you to move your fingers."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Bartlet complied, moving the fingers as best he could till the pain became too much. Letting out a gust of breath that bordered on a groan, he let the hand relax, swallowing against the rising nausea in his stomach.

"Sir, please," Hackett encouraged him. "Full extension, force yourself."

Bartlett was about to protest the impossibility when he felt his wife's fingers brush his cheek, then settle lightly on his shoulder. Meeting her anxious gaze, he gritted his teeth and fully extended the fingers. He shut his eyes again when the pain, which had nearly become background tolerable, surged to new, exquisite heights.

Watching carefully, Hackett told him firmly, "Make a fist, as tight as you can."

Oddly, that was actually easier than the first. Making a fist, the President could feel the torn flesh of his palm, the sticky feel of still-weeping blood. A spasm threatened to tear his wrist out of the medic's grasp, but Hackett kept hold. He felt Abbey's hand tighten on his shoulder. Somehow, that made it more bearable.

"Okay," Hackett said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. "You can relax now."

One eye opened and Bartlet gave his attending physician an incredulous glare. "You've _got_ to be kidding."

"Jed, behave." Abbey then gave her attention to Hackett, who was laying out a syringe and bottle. "No tendon damage?" she asked.

"I think we got lucky there," Hackett replied, upending the bottle and inserting the syringe. "He has full extension and retraction..."

Bartlet snorted. " _We_ ," he grumbled. "I still don't see any _we_ here."

"... I'd still prefer some x-rays," Hackett continued, ignoring the grousing from the patient. Finishing filling the syringe, he gave Abbey his full attention. "Under the circumstances, given Ron's objections to removing him from the Residence, I feel safe administering a local, then cleaning this and closing it as best we can. Do you concur, Dr. Bartlet?"

For a moment, Abbey was too stunned to reply. _He was asking?_ "I do," she replied, finding her voice. His question was more than a gesture; it was a sincere acknowledgment of a trusted colleague. _So much for a piece of paper._

Aware of her unspoken thanks, Hackett smiled at her, then his expression grew serious. "Mr. President?"

"Don't tell me, it's going to hurt, right?"

"Probably." Hackett turned the President's hand over and positioned the needle at the base of his wrist. "I'm administering a local anesthetic. In a few minutes, you won't feel a thing."

"In the meanwhile?" Bartlet asked skeptically.

Hackett didn't bother to answer and inserted the needle, slowly depressing the plunger. Stopping, he pulled back on the needle slightly and maneuvered it into another position before beginning another injection. Under his hand, he felt the muscles of Bartlet's arm tense. 

Starting to repeat the process, he paused briefly when a choked voice asked, "You're gonna pull that out eventually, right?"

"Eventually, Mr. President," Hackett consoled him. This was the worst part and thankfully, considering what his patient had already been through, soon over. The last of the local injected, he removed the needle and gently laid the hand back on the pillow. "Done."

The President wasn't the only one to relax at that declaration. At the foot of the bed, Butterfield and Young, an unwilling audience at best, let out a collective breath that was nearly as loud as the patient's own relieved sigh. Realizing their tandem performance, the short, embarrassed glaring contest was won by the scowling Secret Service agent.

Ziegler, a past champion at the stare-down, chose to let the two amateurs go at it. His own sigh of relief was no less an emotional relief than theirs. For him, at this moment, it was enough.

Witnessing this, Abbey's short laugh contained only a hint of hysteria. At this point, she figured just a touch of emotional instability had been well earned. Her expression softened when she looked down at her husband.

Despite the ordeal of the local being over, he had sunk his teeth into his lower lip, apparently headless of the fact that this was causing the cuts there to bleed anew. His occasional screwing up of his eyes in pain was frustrating her continued attempts to clean them of the blood that had dried on the lids. 

Looking closer at his left eyelid, Abbey couldn't help but feel that whatever angels of good fortune habitually hovered over her husband were working overtime on his behalf of late. Jed's eyes seemed amazingly untouched, but judging by the cuts and scratches on that eyelid in particular he had, quite literally, blinked at exactly the right moment.

Gently lifting Bartlet's hand and laying out a fresh towel, Hackett scowled at the mess he had to deal with. He'd seen worse, but it still wasn't pretty. Opening a bottle of saline solution, he asked, "What exactly happened, Mr. President?"

"That's what I'd like to know." A somewhat breathless McGarry barreled through the door, joining the other three men at the foot of the bed. "Abbey, sir, I'm sorry. C.J. needed a moment."

"I'll bet she did," Bartlet grumbled from the bed, wincing as Hackett poured the saline over his palm. It didn't hurt as much as he'd feared. The local must have started kicking in. An odd, creeping numbness seemed to be spreading slowly up his hand. "Spinning this is gonna be fun. How far did the commotion carry anyway?"

The Chief of Staff shrugged in no small dismay. "If the crowd I glimpsed outside reception was any indication, at least as far as the Communications bullpen." He shook his head, determined to keep the President's questions at this point to the bare minimum. "Never mind that, sir. We'll worry about it later."

"Yeah, 'cause the press are always really patient and understanding about waiting for their explanations and daily feedings." Bartlet's mouth twisted and he squirmed slightly as Hackett delicately withdrew a fragment from a particularly deep incision. "They're not stupid, Leo. I'm sure the rumor mill has already kicked in. We certainly can't tell them what really happened. Although that shouldn't be too hard, because I sure as hell don't know what _did_ happen exactly."

"Ron?" McGarry swung around to his sometime associate and partner in presidential baby-sitting. "How soon..."

"I'll have a preliminary report for you within twenty minutes." The Security Chief's finger seemed to be permanently jammed to his earpiece and he looked up with a scowl of concentration. "Mr. President, if you'll excuse me?"

"Go." Bartlet waved his free hand to give permission. "Oh, and don't forget to..."

"... keep Admiral Fitzwallace and the NSA informed," Butterfield completed briskly. "Yes, sir." The senior agent quickly strode out of the room, gathering his subordinates as he went and issuing instructions for a full detail to be posted right outside the bedroom doors.

Relieved that he had lost at least part of the audience for his present incapacitated state, the President returned his attention to his Communications Director. "Toby, any ideas on how we should handle this?"

Ziegler cleared his throat uncomfortably; awkward at witnessing the frantic first aid currently being carried out on his Chief Executive. "Frankly, sir, no. It's a PR nightmare. Unlike the NTSB report, we can't keep this under wraps. And we certainly can't tell the truth. We've got to come up with a plausible story to account for..."

"... this?" Bartlet's gesture encompassed both his face and arm. "Yeah, it's pretty visible damage."

"And rather extensive." McGarry was feeling a little punchy with shock-induced adrenaline. "We might be able to conceal the hand, but the face..."

"Conceal the hand?" Ziegler was openly skeptical, not to mention dumbfounded at the simplistic suggestion. If _only_... "Leo, the President is one of the most photographed and observed people in the world. How on earth could we conceal that he doesn't have the use of his left hand?"

"I don't know. In his pocket maybe?" Shock was definitely setting in; the Chief of Staff was never this scattered. Seeing his friend on the hospital gurney after Rosslyn had been bad enough, but _this_? "Or maybe, you know..." thrusting his own hand into the breast of his jacket.

The President stared at his Chief of Staff incredulously. "Do I look like Napoleon to you, Leo?"

"Well, the height..."

"Leo!" The White House Chief of Staff wasn't the only one starting to feel a little punchy.

"Jed, shut up a minute, will you?" demanded his exasperated wife, who had been endeavoring to assess a particularly deep cut just under his chin.

Her husband complied meekly. Besides, he was starting to feel increasingly woozy, the old familiar fatigue washing over him in gentle waves. Maybe it was the absence of pain from his hand; he couldn't be sure. The effort to focus both his attention and his eyes on his two advisors was becoming increasingly wearisome.

He was jerked back to full attention as Hackett, having finally finished his probing, briskly swabbed at the open wound that was his palm with the practiced heavy-handedness characteristic of the professional medic. It didn't exactly _hurt,_ but Bartlet still flinched with sufficient vim to yank his chin out of Abbey's equally firm grasp. Hackett tightened the grip on his wrist as well.

Dazedly, he wondered how many of the bruises that would undoubtedly be appearing on the morrow would be able to be laid down to the explosion, and how many might be traced to his two overly conscientious physicians.

"Jed, stop wriggling." Abbey was in full doctor mode. Not that he didn't enjoy the attention, but her husband usually preferred to deflect her focus away from his health as rapidly as possible, generally to more... _recreational_ pursuits. He hated having his physical condition at the center of attention. He couldn't avoid it this time, though.

Although, observing the increasing glaze to his eyes, she rather doubted that he had the energy to attempt to distract her just now.

"Robert..." She recaptured her errant spouse's chin and tilted his head back. "... there's this cut here, just below the jaw line, and another at his left eyebrow that need a couple of stitches. Other than that, I don't think any of the other puncture wounds are sufficiently deep to warrant stitching."

"I agree." Hackett squinted at the underside of the President's chin as the First Lady angled their patient's head. "We'll dress some of the deeper wounds, but I think the rest should be disinfected and left open to breathe."

Not at all happy about being on display, or being talked over like he wasn't there, Bartlet still managed to hold his tongue. From the look in his wife's eye, he knew she was waiting for him to start something and right now, as much as he loved her, he didn't feel like giving her the satisfaction of being right. Not this time. Perversely it seemed, while his hand had gone blessedly numb, the all-consuming ache seemed to have migrated to the rest of his body.

Hackett had turned his attention to a more serious concern, drawing Abbey's attention to her husband's hand. "It's hard to see, but there is a severe laceration in the center of the palm. Only the one, mind you, but it's going to be difficult to stitch because of the explosive damage. Fortunately, as we've already seen, none of the major tendons or muscles have been compromised, but the skin and subcutaneous tissues of the palm and fingers have been pretty much flayed. There is some second degree charring as well, from the heat of detonation."

Oblivious to the empathic wincing of both McGarry and Ziegler at his action, he carefully manipulated the hand and fingers in illustration for his equally engrossed, though obviously still worried colleague. Young, who had retreated behind the First Lady to hold the small bowl into which she and Hackett had been depositing the foreign materials extracted from the wounds, visibly tightened his grip on the rim.  

Not even three local anesthetics were going to stand up to _that_. Bartlet pulled his hand away with a tortured hiss and glared balefully at his physicians through pain-filmed eyes. Much to his annoyance, they didn't even glance his way. So much for being the leader of the free world. 

Instead, Abbey effectively interrupted the composition of a rather superior biting comment about whether they'd be happier if he just left them his hand and quit the room - because they certainly didn't seem to need _him_ \- by applying what had to be the most vicious antiseptic in the pharmacopoeia to the first of his facial abrasions.

He was damn sure she had planned it that way, too.   

Hackett in turn was threading a long, curved silver needle. The sight of it caused McGarry to gulp quietly, and the visibly edgy Ziegler eyed the rapidly greening Chief of Staff askance. An uneasy silence reigned for some minutes, broken only by the occasional low grunt of protest from the President as the two doctors worked on his facial injuries.  

Eventually, both drew back, satisfied with their immediate efforts. Surgical dressing adorned the President's face at several points, and Hackett's neat stitching was almost invisible under the hair of his eyebrow, and more or less concealed under the point of his chin.  The other cuts and scratches stood out in vivid red relief against the clammy paleness of his skin, and his left eyelid was slightly swollen and puffy, his lips lacerated and raw.

It wasn't a sight to gladden C.J. Cregg's heart (her personal sentiments aside, of course), but both medical experts knew how much more serious it could have been. The damage was really only cosmetic after all.

Unfortunately, the same couldn't be so easily said for Bartlet's left hand. Hackett frowned down at the maimed palm as he threaded a fresh needle. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to make such a tidy job of the stitching here," he commented to his colleague. "There's practically no skin left, and the subcutaneous tissue is pretty much pulped in places.  It's going to be difficult to anchor the stitches in places. We're just going to have to forget about appearances and settle for closing it as best we can."

"Yes." Abbey nodded her agreement. "And stabilize the hand, of course."

"Stabilize it?" Bartlet regarded them suspiciously. "What's that going to involve?" His lips tightened slightly in irritation as once again his question passed right by the engrossed doctors.  

Noticing this, Ziegler stepped forward, coughing apologetically and selflessly entering the lion's den. "Excuse me, ma'am?"

Abbey looked up from her work, giving the Communications Director her somewhat irritated attention. "Yes, Toby?"

"The President just wondered... that is... what will stabilizing his hand involve?"

Bartlet shot his Communications Director a glance of mingled surprise and gratitude, causing Ziegler to color slightly and step back beside McGarry. Observing the way each man surreptitiously glanced at the other, then snapped away as if afraid to make eye contact, he wondered once again just what the hell was going on with those two.  

Abbey was answering Ziegler. "We're not going to splint his hand, Toby or put it in a sling..."

"That'll cheer C.J. up," the President interjected, trying vainly to gain some control of the proceedings.

"... but we are going to have to immobilize it as much as possible." Abbey steamrolled over her husband's attempt to impose himself effortlessly and with practiced ease. "Otherwise, there's a risk he could tear the stitches or reopen the wound. So, it'll be heavily bandaged. He'll also have to try to keep the hand elevated as much as possible."

"Anything else _he_ should know?" Bartlet was getting increasingly testy. This was one reason he disliked attending doctors. Even the best of them, his wife included, tended to forget the person and see only the problem. And he hated being defined that way. 

Also, the nervous energy of earlier had given way to a cranky tiredness. Much more of this attention and prodding and he feared his temper really would snap. Right now, he just wanted them all to go away and leave him in peace to regroup and gather what was left of his rapidly waning resources.

Although the searing, burning pain in his hand had mercifully dulled, he wasn't sure if the uneasy hollow numbness that replaced it was much of an improvement. And he was becoming increasingly aware of the raw tenderness of his face. "You could just tell _me_ , you know. I _am_ still here."

"Funny, Jed." Abbey wasn't going to snap out of professional mode so easily. She couldn't afford to. It was the only thing that had kept her hands from shaking as she tended her husband and reflected on what had happened, what _could_ have happened. "Robert? Do we have enough bandages here? We're going to need to wrap the wrist and lower forearm as well in order to give enough support."

Hackett looked up briefly from lining up the needle to make its first incursion into the President's palm. "No, I'm going to need at least another couple of rolls, and some more Hibitane as well."

"What's Hibitane?" McGarry's question was inspired less by curiosity and more by a need to distract himself from Hackett's preparations.  

"Prevents infection." The First Lady explained briskly. "Especially effective on open wounds that are still bleeding. I'll go get what we need from medical supplies myself, Robert. Quicker than writing the details down for one of the agents or the stewards." And, to be fair, Hackett _was_ the attending physician.  It made more sense for her to go. "Charlie? Come help me?"

"Yes, ma'am." Young was only too thankful to be able to do something practical to help at last. The need to do something, _anything_ , was overwhelming. He rather suspected this same need to keep busy was part of the reason behind the First Lady's proposed excursion. He didn't blame her, could hardly stand still himself. He followed her towards the door.

"Abbey?" The President's voice sounded slightly strained. "While you're getting that stuff, have a look at Charlie's cheek, will you?"

Young half-turned, startled and touched that the man could remember the relatively insignificant cut his aide had acquired, considering his own condition. "Sir, that's not necessary. Really, I'm fine."

Abbey patted the young man affectionately on the arm. "Don't worry, Jed. I'll look after him." Linking her arm through his, she steered Young through the bedroom doors and past the bevy of agents grimly congregated outside, her own detail falling in behind her.

Now the only remaining members of the original audience, McGarry and Ziegler fidgeted uncomfortably beside each other, a subtle tension still charging the air around them. Still shocked by events and unable to settle, McGarry drifted around the foot of the bed, finally coming up behind Hackett and leaning in to observe the treatment of the President's hand. 

Almost immediately, he wished he hadn't. Leo McGarry had a pretty strong stomach but not, he was discovering, where injury to those he cared about was concerned. Still able to taste the metallic bile of the fear he had felt for his friend's condition in the instant aftermath of the explosion, he felt his insides twist anew at the sight of the damage the explosive had wrought.  Hackett had been kind when he described the flesh as _pulped_.  To McGarry it looked rather as if someone had taken a meat hammer to a side of uncooked beef.  Somehow, watching the contrasting gleam of silver as the needle wove its way amongst the damage only made it worse.  

One thing was for sure; he was never going to be able to order his steak _rare_ again.

No sooner had that evil little image popped into his brain, than he found himself desperately trying to banish it again. Too late. Swallowing with difficulty against an ominously tightening throat, the Chief of Staff uttered a muffled, "Excuse me," before withdrawing with as much dignity as haste would permit to the adjoining bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him.  

The absorbed Hackett didn't even look up from his delicate work. Ziegler regarded the closed door with rueful sympathy, then caught the appraising eye of his Chief Executive.  Warily, he approached the bed in his turn. "How are you doing, Mr. President?"

"Slightly better than Leo right at this moment, it would appear." Frankly, Bartlet was feeling strangely detached from events right now. Everything seemed both remote and oddly attenuated. 

Fascinated, he watched the dip and rise of the needle as it penetrated his flesh. The lack of sensation made the experience even more surreal. However, it wasn't exactly an attractive sight. As the needle made its passage through a particularly ragged section of flesh he suddenly envied Leo his mobility. Well, that particular option was closed to him right now, so time to take alternative measures. "Admiral, mind if I have a cigarette?"

His concentration finally broken, Hackett looked up and cocked an incredulous eyebrow. "Are you serious, Mr. President?"

"Never more so. Come on," the President wheedled in his best _'see how pitiful I am'_ tone of voice. It never worked on Abbey, but he had high hopes Hackett was a bit more susceptible. "I just want something to relax my nerves... and my stomach," he added as his physician began to shake his head. "Look, I'll lay it out for you. Either let me have a cigarette to keep my mind off what you're doing or risk me messing up your nice uniform."

That gave Hackett serious pause. No military man liked the idea of his Class A's sustaining that kind of damage. Besides, with a local already administered it wasn't as if he could actually give the man anything for nausea. And if it helped relax him... "Very well, Mr. President. But just the one, mind you. So you'd better make it last until I'm finished here."

Bartlet visibly perked up at this first success over his medical advisors. "Top drawer," he waved to Ziegler, who recovered the packet from the bed stand and shook one out for him. 

With a slightly shaky hand, the Communications Director presented his lighter, embarrassed that the President had to reach up with his good hand to assist in the last ritual of lighting up. 

Bartlet drew on the cigarette gratefully. It wasn't at all good for him, he wasn't about to argue with that, but it did help. And right now, he didn't really care.

"Have one yourself, Toby," he offered graciously. The man looked like he could use some relief as well.

"Yeah, I think I will." Ziegler was very aware of the therapeutic properties of nicotine for the addict. He drew out his cigar case. "Would you mind if I smoked my own?"

"Not at all." Bartlet blithely ignored Hackett's pointed eye rolling. He grinned, taking another drag off his cigarette. "Even better actually. Your cigar should more than drown out the smell of my cigarette for Abbey's return. Oh, for Heaven's sake, Toby!" he exclaimed with some exasperation as Ziegler paused in terrified mid-puff. "I'm kidding!"

Ziegler stroked his beard dubiously, but settled gingerly on the right side of the bed, looking across his President's chest to where the man's hand still lay propped on the pillow. "Are you in a lot of pain right now, sir?"

"Not too bad right now, thanks, Toby."  Bartlet cautiously wiggled a finger and grimaced slightly. "Mind you, I'm not looking forward to the anesthetic wearing off."

"Done!" Hackett snipped the last thread and laid the hand down gingerly. "About a dozen stitches, Mr. President.  Not bad for a relatively small area, but the wound was quite deep. Now hold still because we still need to wrap it." He rose, gathering his paraphernalia.  "I'm just going to wash up... and check on Mr. McGarry," he added as a muttered afterthought before vanishing into the bathroom.

Left alone, the President and his Communications Director puffed away peacefully for a couple of minutes. Then Bartlet glanced at his companion. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Sir?"

"You and Leo."  Bartlet noticed the sudden interest Ziegler exhibited in the tip of his cigar. Yep, he'd definitely called that one right. "Something's happened between you two, and it had to have been last night because there was no sign of it yesterday. Now, everyone knows that you and I blow up at each other on a regular basis. They can tell time by it. You and Leo? Not so much. So what happened? Something come up at the staff briefing?"

"Not at the briefing, but afterwards."  Ziegler shifted uncomfortably. "Sir, really..."

"Anything I should know about?" Toby's inability to meet his gaze was a dead giveaway. Bartlet grimaced. "It was about me, wasn't it? Toby, if you're still concerned about my ability to carry out my duties properly in the wake of recent revelations..."

"I'm not!"  Ziegler's response was passionate in its sincerity.  "Please, sir, no matter what I may have said in the past, don't ever think I have anything but the greatest confidence in you. No, Leo... simply wanted an answer that wasn't mine to give."

"Then who’s...?" Bartlet's eyes narrowed. "Mine? Toby, what did Leo want to know?"

"Sir, he wasn't attempting to pry. You know Leo; he's incapable of taking advantage of a friendship." He paused briefly as Bartlet nodded glumly. "But he was worried about you. And," a deep drag on his cigar for confidence, "angry with me."  

"Was this about our... talk?" It was the first time either had referred to that night since their peacemaking chess match.

"Yes, sir. In a roundabout sort of way. He was concerned that it might be still affecting you." Ziegler looked down guiltily. "He felt you already had more than enough to cope with right now."

"And of course, you didn't tell him." Bartlet glanced at the closed bathroom door; a short, bitter laugh escaping his bruised and cut lips. "Poor Leo. He's not used to the word _no_."

"A common affliction in this building," Ziegler muttered, not _too_ unkindly. 

"It's more than that though, isn't it?  Leo wouldn't expect you to break a confidence. He's upset about something else."

"I... may have crossed a line." Ziegler was still refusing to meet his President's eye. His head snapped up though when Bartlet gave a low, heartily amused chuckle. He hadn't expected that.

"You, Toby? Crossing lines? You amaze me." Bartlet grinned at his discomfited advisor. "Nice to know that even Leo isn't immune."

"Yes, sir." Ziegler sheepishly took another drag on his cigar. Deciding to seize the moment, and scarcely able to fathom why this issue was so important to him, he asked, "Was he right to worry, sir?"

Bartlet's amused expression abruptly shuttered. Lowering his voice and glancing at the bathroom door to make sure they weren't interrupted, he said, "I'm fine, Toby. Really. And I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind. God damn it!" The exclamation was part angry exasperation, part curiosity. "Why is it so important to you anyway? I've told you already, it wasn't exactly a Dickens novel. Many people would even say it was just the way things were back then. What do you want from me?"

Ziegler regarded his companion sadly. "To maybe acknowledge that it wasn't _all right_ , that it wasn't _fine_ ," he said quietly. "To realize, as I do, that you deserved better. All children do."

Bartlet met his gaze, startled and visibly at a loss for words. Toby was doing it again, and damned if he could figure out how.

The opening of the bedroom doors broke the silence. Abigail Bartlet swept through, a medical tray loaded with fresh bandages in one hand. Halting abruptly, she glared through a cloud of smoke at the two men seated on the bed before advancing purposely, dropping the tray on the end of the bed as she passed.

"Hi, Abbey." Bartlet was grateful for the interruption. "Did you get..." He broke off abruptly as his wife angrily snatched the cigarette from his fingers. 

Leaning across her husband, Abbey plucked the cigar from the bewildered Ziegler's mouth with an audible pop, then wheeled about to march purposely into the bathroom, passing a surprised Hackett and McGarry - who had been leaning on the countertop inside - engaged in intense discussion.

Bartlet and Ziegler gazed after her blankly, then turned slowly comprehending gazes on each other as the fanfare of flushing water clearly sounded through the open door. The Communications Director's mouth was the first to twitch, and then the President threw back his head in a full-throated laugh as his companion in crime joined in.  

"Toby my boy, we are in _deep_ trouble," Bartlet gasped, wiping his eyes with his good hand and grimacing slightly at the stinging sensation the incautious gesture induced.

Ziegler struggled to contain his chuckles - he _did_ after all have a reputation to maintain - almost giddy with pleasure at being able to share this moment with a man he regarded as a friend. "Hey, I'm not the patient here. You can fight this battle yourself, old man."

Watching from his vantage point just inside the bathroom door, McGarry was prey to a strange mix of emotions. He was glad to see Jed being able to snatch such moments of camaraderie with his staff; he hadn't had very many moments just to be with a friend since taking office. But Toby's words of the previous evening continued to resound in his head.

He _was_ Jed's oldest friend. He truly loved the man. Had he failed in that friendship, if not in work and duty? When had the job become all they talked about, all _he_ talked about? When had he made Jed come to feel that he could more easily confide in Toby instead? Seeing the two men laughing on the bed, he suddenly felt cut off from the man who meant so much to him.  

McGarry wasn't given much time to dwell on such depressing thoughts though as Abbey, a gleam in her eye and clearly on the warpath, brushed by him. He exchanged an equitable roll of the eyes with Hackett as he and the medic followed the First Lady back into the main bedroom to watch the show.  

Hands on her hips, Abbey Bartlet glared down at the two culprits, who were sobering rapidly and eyeing her with apprehension. _Good!_ "Toby," she said quietly. "I'll need you to stand back, please."

Hardly able to believe his good fortune at escaping so easily, Ziegler hastened to get clear of the danger zone.

Bartlet shot a betrayed glance at his retreating back. "Chicken!" he hissed.  

"Pumpkin?" Abbey said sweetly. Sure that she had his full nervous attention, she gave him a warning glance. "We'll discuss it all later. Right now, we need to finish with your hand."

Bartlet sighed resignedly as Hackett once again seated himself on the edge of the bed and delicately lifted his hand from its resting place, allowing the First Lady to spread yet another fresh towel beneath. The laundry bills after this little incident were going to be murder. At least the stitching of the main wound had slowed the bleeding to a trickle.

Glancing around, he suddenly demanded, "Where's Charlie?"

"I sent him to lie down." Abbey was handing Hackett the Hibitane and a roll of surgical gauze. "The cut wasn't serious, but he was suffering from mild shock. A few hours rest and he'll be fine."

"Good."  Bartlet shifted slightly on the bed and winced. "Ow!"

"Sorry, Mr. President." Hackett had thickly layered his palm and fingers with the cream and gaze and was beginning to wrap the first of what looked to be several excessively long bandages around the hand and wrist.

"No, it's not you." Bartlet grimaced as he tugged gently at his blood-stiffened shirtfront. "Now it's drying, my shirt is starting to stick to my chest. Can I change?" On Abbey's nod, he gestured towards the bureau. "Leo, toss me a shirt out of the second drawer, will you?"

"Not a shirt, Leo, and not the sweats either,” his wife interrupted briskly. “Get his pajamas from the drawer above.” Glaring at her patient, she asked, "A shirt? Where do you think you're going, mister?  You're donning pajamas and getting into bed right now."

"I _am_ in bed," Bartlet groused. Who cared if he sounded petulant? He was feeling petulant and felt like reveling in it.

"And staying there. Do I make myself clear?"

Glowering slightly, but admitting to himself that he really didn't feel up to doing anything else anyway, Bartlet began to carefully and awkwardly unbutton his shirt. McGarry hurried to his assistance, pajamas clutched in one hand.

"Here, Jed. Let me help." The words were impulsively spoken, and McGarry didn't even notice Ziegler's glance of surprised approval.

Abbey noticed as well, giving McGarry an astonished look of her own, quickly masked. When was the last time she'd heard Leo call Jed by name, to his face? A quiet evening, the last for many years to come, before the Illinois primary was the vague memory. She wasn't sure, but she could have sworn there was a flash of smug satisfaction on Toby's face before his features once again settled into his usual bellicose facade. _Interesting_.

Fighting the last of his shirt buttons with an irritated grunt, Bartlet didn't seem to notice.

Grasping the cuff of his friend's sleeve, McGarry eased the bloodied shirt off the man's right arm and shoulders as the President leaned forward to assist him. The left sleeve had been partly shredded by the blast, and Hackett paused in his wrapping of the hand long enough to slide the shirt down and off. McGarry turned back to the President again, holding the opened pajama top and bending over his friend.

"Just lean forward again and I can drape this over your shoulders until the Admiral's done..." McGarry's voice trailed off as Bartlet compliantly stretched forward, exposing the expanse of his back to his friend's eyes.

There, on the right side, just below the ribcage. A puckered, slightly jagged scar; a tear. An exit wound. McGarry clutched the cloth in his hands, unable for a second to move or even breathe. He'd seen it before, knew what it looked like. But right here and now, in these circumstances, it was a reminder he could have well done without.

The memories returned, images crashing against his consciousness like an oncoming wave. _Sensory overload._ He tried, God how he tried, but he couldn't stop them. _Blood and tears._ Too much blood. A cynical inner voice echoed the words Bartlett had spoken only the night before. The teasing words of a beloved friend and colleague, but now colored the bright crimson of violence.

_'Thank you for that, Leo,'_ the President had said, a slight smile taking the sting from his words. _'This job was your idea.'_

_His_ idea. Lift houses, take on the world. McGarry had convinced him to fight for and accept this job: to willingly sacrifice so much and maybe, just _maybe_ , make a difference and put a lasting mark on history. It was only a job, difficult, maddening and frustrating to the extreme, but still just a _job_.

It wasn't supposed to kill him.

With a muffled curse, McGarry thrust the top into Abbey's stunned hands and practically leapt away from the bed. Taking deep, unsteady breaths, he bolted for the bedroom door, blinded by memories that wouldn't be denied.  He couldn't stay here. Not now. 

Nearly up-ended by the man's sudden action, Hackett made a grab for the medical tray before it could slide to the floor. Scowling, he turned to offer his unbridled opinion to the Chief of Staff, but paused when he saw the troubled look on Ziegler's face as he watched McGarry's uncharacteristically emotional and hasty retreat. He didn't need to have it spelled out. Embarrassed at being witness, he glanced away, concentrating his whole attention on unrolling a length of bandage.

Ziegler shuffled his feet, staring uneasily at the toes of his shoes.

Confused, Abbey watched McGarry bolt for the door. Clutching the shirt tightly in her hands, she called out worriedly, "Leo...?"

She jumped as the bedroom door slammed shut, then turned a questioning glance on her husband. Abbey almost broke down at the expression of raw grief on his face and she suddenly understood. Last night, she had so wanted to lay blame, not truly realizing the depths Leo McGarry had plumbed upbraiding himself.

The blame her husband was also claiming for his own.

A new helpless anguish seared her heart, and she reached out to her husband, brushing her fingers across his forehead. "Jed?" she asked, feeling him shudder as he drew a sharp breath.

"Damn!" Bartlet muttered, letting his head fell back against the pillow. He didn't need to ask, he knew. "Let him go, Abbey," he said softly. At her openly skeptical look, he managed a dry laugh. "He'll be okay. It's not like I can follow him, is it? Leo'll work it out. He always does."

Abbey wasn't so sure about that. Jed so wanted to follow but couldn't, she understood that as well. He didn't like feeling helpless or cornered. It didn't matter that _circumstances_ \- she was beginning to hate that word - were in control, not him. She watched him stare at the closed door, silent and defeated. _In every respect, they were so much alike._ The thought, although not new, still managed to frighten her, especially now.

The words she had spoken to Leo last night came to mind, and with loving sincerity, she gave them to her husband. "It's not your fault, Jed. Anymore than it's his."

"I wish I could believe that."

"Believe it." Despite the audience, she leaned forward and, mindful of the cuts, brushed her lips tenderly across his. Sure she had his attention, she cocked her head, smiled and told him, "Not everything requires blame, Jed. You'd think we'd all have learned that by now."

The President's dry chuckle held only a hint of bitter regret. "Yeah, you'd think."

Finishing what McGarry had begun, Abbey draped the pajama top across her husband's shoulders. "Since when do we bother to think around here?"

Bartlett didn't bother to dignify that with an answer.

Ziegler cleared his throat. "Sir?"

"No, Toby." Catching the man's wary glance towards the door, it wasn't hard to deduce his intent. "All things considered, you're the _last_ person he needs in his corner right now. A train wreck comes to mind."

Ziegler had the presence of mind to look slightly affronted at that, but ruefully acknowledged the point with a nod and a scowl. God knows how many _traffic barriers_ he'd manage to cross if he did go out there.

Seeing the man's understanding, however reluctant - Toby honestly _did_ want to help - Bartlet nodded in return. "He just needs to find his bearings."

"In the meanwhile, Mr. President," Hackett interjected a touch impatiently, holding up a roll of fresh bandages. "We're not quite finished _here_."

The President's muttered comment violated several local - if a bit antiquated - obscenity laws and would have got him tossed out of the House on his ear. It _did_ earn him a playful though gentle slap on the arm from his wife. Despite his growing fatigue, he brightened a bit at that.

Hell, maybe this whole day _wasn't_ a total bust.

~ooOoo~

Feeling guilty and shamed that he hadn't been able to remain in the room and watch them put his friend back together, McGarry pulled one of the hallway chairs away from the wall and literally fell onto it with a grunt. With the initial adrenaline rush burned off by a brisk run through the mansion and what he had witnessed inside, emotionally and physically, he was made acutely aware that he wasn't exactly a kid anymore. With an exhausted sigh he hunched over, arms resting on his thighs and leaning his head forward between his knees. It seemed to help settle the nausea twisting his stomach.

"You look green."

"Agent Butterfield." Lifting his head, McGarry found the strength of mind to offer his tormentor a truly venomous glare. "Your sympathy is overwhelming."

Butterfield shrugged. Despite his flat words, it wasn't sympathy McGarry was looking for, and more than most the agent understood what the man was going through. Inclining his head towards the closed door, he asked, "Is he going to be okay?"

McGarry could only nod tiredly, bringing up his hands to hold a head that suddenly seemed far to heavy to support itself.

"You gonna be okay?" It was a blunt question, but needed to be asked. 

"Do I have any choice?" McGarry shot the agent a dark look, his mouth twisting angrily. More than a hint of helpless rage entered his voice. "This shouldn't have happened, Ron."

"No, it shouldn't have."

McGarry blinked at the empty response, realizing then how the normally emotionless agent had interpreted his tone. He nearly cursed out loud at his carelessness. Ron was giving himself enough of a beating without the need for spectators, however emotionally involved, joining in the fun. Failure was not an option and Butterfield fully expected to be charged with it. The Chief of Staff knew as well that any denial of that false accusation on his part wouldn't be accepted. 

But he could give him this, and mean it. "Any resignations placed on the President's desk, or mine, will be torn up and tossed into the waste bin where they belong. Is that understood?"

Butterfield's mouth tightened, but he nodded, for the moment accepting the absolution.

"He's alive, Ron." Dear God, those words were torn from the depths of his soul. _Jed_ was alive. For now, it was the only thing keeping him sane.

"They didn't want him dead, Leo." Butterfield lifted a sheet of paper in his hand, staring at it. Another string of words, another useless _report_. Well, not quite useless. "Killing him at this point wasn't part of their game plan."

" _They_ ," McGarry's lip curled with disgust, "came awfully close."

This was not what Butterfield wanted to hear from McGarry. He needed to bring the man out of his slump, invigorate his mind and force him to see beyond his injured friend. And right now, he knew it wasn't just the life of the President that was tearing him apart, but Josiah Bartlet's. 

"Think about it, Leo. There's no way they could have smuggled enough explosives into the White House to kill him outright. Somebody in security was asleep at the wheel, yes, I admit that." And he was going to find out exactly _who_ had dropped the ball on this one. Heads were going to roll. "They want him _out_ , Leo. Out of the White House, out of the security perimeter and _out_ into the questionable playing field of the real world."

McGarry's short laugh contained very little humor. "The real world, Ron?" Thinking about it, he decided it wasn't so bad a choice of words. The last three years _had_ gone by like a Burroughs-inspired nightmare. Still, some of the deeply simmering rage boiled off at that statement, and the last few accusations he wanted to level at the Security Chief.

Ron had ably hit on the answer to the next question he'd wanted to ask. So _they_ wanted him out, did they? He wasn't quite ready to accept the implications. "That's why you kept him here, no ambulance or hospital?" At Ron's stiff nod, he scowled. "It doesn't wash. They have to know there's a fully-stocked operating theater in the basement that can handle..."

"Not if the explosion took his hand off," Ron broke in, interrupting him with a vehement shake of his head. "Even with the equipment downstairs, nobody, not even Admiral Hackett could have handled that."

"Or the First Lady," McGarry added in a harsh whisper, the dawning realization choking him. His heart gave a sickening lurch.

"Or Dr. Bartlet. At that point, removing the President to Bethesda or GW would have been our _only_ choice. He's out, and they take _him_ out in a spectacularly public manner. It's what they planned with Marine One, but we didn't give it to them."

"Luck," McGarry snarled, still not quite hearing him. "It was sheer, be-damned _luck_ Fitz' paranoia got the better of him." Straightening in his chair, not quite able to banish the horrific images, the sound of the explosion from his mind and what _might_ have happened, the Chief of Staff gave Butterfield a narrow eyed glare tinged with growing ice. "He dropped it, Ron. He _dropped_ it! If he hadn't..."

McGarry swung his arm back angrily, slamming a clenched fist into the wall behind him. Sent askew by the impact, a painting crashed to the floor with the shattering of glass. Already jumpy, the agents stationed down the hall had their guns out, searching, then saw the source of the commotion and relaxed. But not by much.

The only one who didn't react was Butterfield. Stoically, he watched the Chief of Staff with a calculating air colored by grim satisfaction. He'd been expecting it, hoping for this reaction from Leo McGarry. Rage was better than fear. A mind fueled by righteous anger was sharper than one muddled by shock. _Good! He was thinking again._

"Little moves, Leo." He held out the paper to McGarry, offering a bit more fuel for the rage. "Little moves in a very broad game."

"What's this?" McGarry accepted the sheet, pulling his reading glasses from his pocket and putting them on.

"A transcript of what was left of the letter that accompanied the... gift." Butterfield sneered on the last word. "It was pretty chewed up by the shrapnel, but I'm fairly certain that's the whole of it. The original is already on its way to the Quantico labs. The Oval's been roped off; my people are going through the debris." A thin, humorless smile tightened his lips. "The President won't be using his office for awhile."

"Like we needed one more excuse to keep him in bed."

"One would think the First Lady would have that problem safely in hand."

McGarry snorted. The First Lady, Charlie, himself, Toby, the rest of the senior staff _and_ \- if their stubborn Commander-in-Chief managed to get by that stalwart crew - Ron Butterfield. Jed didn't stand a chance.

McGarry blinked at that thought, surprised and strangely pleased. Pissed, too. He'd done it again, even if it was in the privacy of his own thoughts. _Jed_. He didn't like the implications one bit. Even entertaining the thought that Toby was right burned like a rapidly spreading rash. But he was quickly coming to the reluctant conclusion that the belligerent yet scathingly observant Communications Director had a point.

He _did_ have a protocol bug up his ass. The problem was that removing it could have waited for somewhat less dire circumstances.

Sighing, he turned back to the paper in his hand and began to read. It didn't take him long; the note was brief and succinct. Short on words but full of a frighteningly subtle familiarity with the subject at hand and coldly malicious intent.

With barely bridled anger in his voice, McGarry read aloud, " _Castle takes Bishop_." He looked up at Butterfield. "A chess metaphor? The President is not going to like this."

Butterfield grunted his agreement, then said, "We've been flanked. On all sides. They know us, and they know _him_. Mind games, Leo. And we're losing."

Not what McGarry wanted to hear. "Was the original handwritten?"

"No. Typed and copied."

"You're not going to get much of a profile from that." He handed the transcript back to Butterfield, thankful to have it out of his hands. "Other than an arrogant boast, we still have nothing."

"We have enough." Butterfield accepted the sheet from McGarry, resisting the urge to crumple it in his hand. The unknown author had tried to hide behind the brevity of the message, but he'd slipped. It was the first step in bringing him down. "That arrogance gives him away. _He_ isn't a kid; late twenties, maybe early thirties. Old enough to have learned patience, young enough to still have the invulnerability of youth. He likes games, and that patience allows him to calculate and to play them. Given what we know about the Red Mafia and how they operate, he's most likely a sociopath, not inhibited by moral or societal restrictions."

"And this is different from our own home-grown Mafia how?"

"Leo, the Red Mafia makes the old Sicilian mob look like a kindergarten bully with a sugar rush. Think modern Cossack and you'll come close. These people think in terms of conquest as well as profit. Loyalty is earned by the blood of your victims, the more the better. And our man has moved up its ranks at a relatively young age. I imagine he's taken out his... competition and made a name for himself. He hasn't lost, not yet. Arrogance fueled by success, pure and simple."

"Games," McGarry muttered, impatiently pulling his drifting thoughts together. _Games_ he could understand. It was the playing field that left him guessing. Still, it was a beginning. "He's arrogant enough to take on the President of the United States."

"Exactly. For the Russians, it's a win-win scenario. Our man fails, they try something else. He may be an up and comer, but his loss won't cripple them. Payment in blood if he wins, blood if he loses. Soldiers are expendable. There's always more."

"More blood," McGarry whispered, closing his eyes against the intruding memory. _Jed's blood_. Opening his eyes, pushing the thoughts deep down where he could deal with them later, he speculated,"He wins, and the _Cossacks_ get what they want. The ultimate protection racket, only on a global scale. Will the behavioral science back you up on this?" An inspiration, a long shot at best, had occurred to him and he needed to be sure. Arrogant youth may have had its advantages, but age and guile had its own slow points to balance the disadvantage.

The Cossack was about to learn the true meaning of the word _nasty_.

"Yes." Head to one side, Butterfield regarded the Chief of Staff curiously, expectantly. The man had lost the air of desperation and confusion that had been consuming him. He was on to something. "You've got an idea?"

"I may," McGarry replied, a grim smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. No longer trapped by his emotions, galvanized by the challenge, he took it one step further. "He's got an ego, and he's young enough to still squirm when it's bruised. Let's play with that. Dent his sensibilities and he may start making mistakes."

"Time to go on the offensive?"

"Oh, I plan to be _very_ offensive. C.J.'s going to enjoy this."

Seeing the gleam in McGarry's eyes, an equally predatory one entered Butterfield's. Baring his teeth in an anticipatory grin, the senior agent had no doubts that he was going to enjoy this as well. C.J. Cregg wasn't the only one who loved a good, down and dirty fight.

At long last, the next move belonged to _them_.

~ooOoo~

After observing the two doctors quietly for a few minutes, Ziegler could not help remarking dryly, "Well, we're not going to be able to hide _that_."

The President grunted in ironic agreement.  Hackett and Abbey had swathed his damaged hand in layer after layer of gauze and bandaging. His lower arm was almost as thickly wrapped, leaving him totally unable to bend or flex his wrist. "Admiral? You nearly done? As it is, I'll barely be able to get this hand through a shirtsleeve. Any more and the press are going to ask if I'm taking this whole _'sparring with Congress'_ metaphor a bit too literally."

Hackett regarded his patient good-humouredly. The man did have a point after all. The wrapping encasing his hand might not be as bulky as a boxing glove, but it wasn't all that far off. "Almost done, sir," he reassured him with a smile, adding yet another layer to the already thick wrappings. "I know it's a bit unwieldy, but if we give your hand enough support and protection now, I won't have to come back and do this all over again because you managed to tear your stitches out. It's quite easily done, you know. Especially on such a flexible area of the body. There!" He held down the end of the final bandage to allow the First Lady to tape it securely in place. "Done. How does that feel?"

Bartlet regarded his mummified appendage without enthusiasm. "Like it doesn't really belong to me. When will the locals wear off?"

"Don't be in too much of a hurry for that to happen, sir," Admiral Hackett warned him. "With a dozen stitches and all that damaged tissue and impact trauma, it's going to hurt like blazes. And trust me, that bandaging won't seem so thick if you bump it off anything. We'll need to keep an eye on you as well to make sure you don't develop an infection. There was a lot of foreign matter in those lacerations."

Bartlet made a face, distinctly under-whelmed at the idea of remaining under close medical scrutiny.

"Remember to keep it elevated, Jed." Abbey was beginning to clear up the debris of their efforts at repairing the President. "It'll help with the pain and reduce swelling."

"Yes, ma'am," replied her husband glumly. Watching his two physicians withdraw into a huddle on the far side of the room, he scowled. Why did doctors have to be so pathologically secretive around their patients?  He shifted uncomfortably, wincing.  

"Sir, are you okay?" Ziegler, at least, hadn't abandoned him.  

"I'm fine, Toby." Bartlet shifted again wearily. "Guess I've been lying too long in the one position, though. I need to stretch my legs. Give me a hand up."

"Sir?" Ziegler's tone was alarmed, and he shot a furtive glance at the two medics conferring near the door. "I'm not sure that's a good idea..."  

Bartlet sighed heavily. He was getting very sick of being told that, and he had a presentiment he was going to hear more rather than less of such sentiments in the following days. "No doubt, Toby. But if my wife gets her way, I'm going to be tied to this bed at least until tomorrow morning. In which case..." He tugged at his open pajama front. "... I'd like to at least finish changing and wash some of this blood off my chest.  Now, give me a hand."

Ziegler stood irresolute, caught between the rock that was his President and the hard place that would be the First Lady's retribution. Sympathy for the man's point of view swayed him, and he took the extended right hand, helping his Chief Executive rise to a sitting position.

Bartlet swung his legs down off the bed and sat quietly on the edge for a moment, waiting out the wave of fatigue and slight dizziness. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at his worried companion and, summoning his resolve, extended his hand again. "Once more Toby, if you wouldn't mind. Then do me a favor and fish out some bottoms from the drawer behind you. It'll make Abbey happy. I'm going to get a wash cloth."

"I'll get that." This time Ziegler's tone brooked no argument as he helped his President stand, continuing to support most of his weight. Feeling the man steady, taking a bit more of his own weight, he inquired with some concern, "Can you manage, sir?"

"I think so..." Bartlet cautiously loosened his grip. "Yeah, I can make it."

Abbey glanced up from her discussion with Hackett, noticing that her husband was standing. "Where do you think you're going?"

"The bathroom," Bartlet snapped with an annoyed frown. It was starting already. She didn't need to know everything, and besides, he _was_ going to the bathroom, eventually.

Abbey considered him carefully for a moment, and then exchanged a questioning look with her husband's attending physician. Hackett took only a moment to give her a quick nod of permission, and she said, "Fine, Jed. Just be careful, all right?"

The President's only response to their condescendingly given permission was a grunt. For the moment, words escaped him, but he was fairly certain both his wife and Hackett were going to be giving him plenty of inspiration for more colorful responses in the days to come.

Shrugging off Ziegler's support and cradling his left hand, Bartlet started to take a tentative step towards the bureau, then another. A bit more confident, he called back over his shoulder, "Toby..." 

His voice choked off abruptly.

Ziegler, who had started to turn away, whirled back just in time to grab the President's arm as he wobbled. Alarmed, he barely had time to absorb the man's shocked expression before Bartlet's legs buckled and he dropped heavily ground-ward.

Ziegler grabbed frantically for the other arm, managing to slide his hand under Bartlet's armpit, but he couldn't arrest the fall of the sheer dead weight in his grasp. The man's knees hit the floor with a thud, and Ziegler found himself driven down to one knee as he attempted to prevent the President's upper body from striking the floor as well.  

The Communications Director heard a cry from Abbey, followed instantly by a crashing and muffled cursing from Hackett as the latter upset a small table in his efforts to reach the two men as fast as possible. Looking down at the man in his arms, he felt his sense of dread begin to grow.  

The President's expression was blank; he seemed stunned. But his eyes revealed to his senior advisor a dreadful mixture of fear, anguish and dull defeat. Even as Abbey and Hackett reached them, Ziegler found himself responding to the message in those eyes in the only way he could think of.  

_"Leo!"_

The bellow had hardly left Ziegler's throat before the bedroom doors once again crashed open as McGarry and Butterfield hurled through them, to be quickly followed by the agents stationed in the hallway. It was a good guess Hackett's encounter with the table had already given them a heads-up that the excitement wasn't quite over.

The President's friend led the charge towards their group even as the Admiral slid his arm under Bartlet's shoulders in an attempt to ease some of his weight off the Communications Director.   

"Jed?" McGarry practically skidded to his knees alongside Abbey as she knelt in front of her husband.

Cupping her husband’s face in her hands, Abbey tried to force him to look at her. Despite her best efforts, he was refusing to meet her gaze, closing his eyes and jerking his head back out of her grasp.

McGarry didn't fare any better. "Jed? Talk to me, damn it!" he called again. No more than the curse, even hearing the sound of the man's own name received no response. Frustrated, he turned to the woman beside him. What he saw frightened him as nothing previously. "Abbey?"

The lines of Abigail Bartlet's face were tightened by an old, familiar fear. She shook her head, reluctant yet to give it a voice. "We need to get him back on the bed."

"Oh, right." McGarry nodded to Ziegler and reached out for his friend. "Okay, let's..."

"Permit me, ma'am."

McGarry blinked in astonishment. Even as he spoke, Ron Butterfield had stepped forward, displacing Hackett, and crouched down to slide his arms under the President's back and legs, rising with the man cradled in his arms and carrying him towards the bed.

Even allowing for the disparity in height between the lanky Security Chief and his more compactly built Commander in Chief, it was an impressive performance. Sneaking a sideways look, McGarry was relieved to see the Communications Director was taken aback as well.

Professional reflexes have their uses. Both Abbey and Hackett shook off the sight as if seeing the President carried like a child was a normal occurrence and hurried after Butterfield, who was even now gently depositing his burden on the bed.

The experience seemed to have shaken Bartlet out of his temporary fugue, and the eyebrow that he cocked at his Secret Service agent conveyed both wry amusement and more than a touch of affronted dignity. "Thanks for the ride, Ron. Let's not do it again soon, okay?"

"Mr. President." Butterfield offered as a murmured apology and stepped back, letting the doctors swoop in on his protectee. His ferocious expression suggested he considered this particular withdrawal to be a dereliction of duty.

"Mr. President?" Hackett's own features were carved with the same grim realization as the First Lady's. "Talk to us."

"It's nothing, I just got dizzy." As he had expected, Bartlet found his protestations ignored as Hackett applied a stethoscope to his chest, even as Abbey strapped a pressure cuff to his upper arm and clamped a finger on his wrist. Sighing, he tried another approach. "I guess everything just caught up with me."

"Mr. President..." Hackett began, his tone disapproving.

He was interrupted by the First Lady.  

"Don't get cute, Jed!" Abbey snapped with real heat. Her stubborn husband wasn't the only one on whom events were catching up. Addressing her colleague, she asked "Pupils?" 

Hackett whipped out a penlight and, ignoring the patient's attempt at protest, shone it into the President's eyes. "Pupil response is abnormal." His tone was bleak.

"Abnormal?" McGarry's alarm spiked. "What does that mean?"

Abbey closed her eyes briefly, then squarely met her husband's headstrong gaze, able to read the frustration contained in the blue eyes. "Jed?  Please, talk to me."

"It's okay, Abbey."

Abbey's mouth tightened in anger and she stood back from the bed, forcing McGarry and Ziegler to scramble out of her way. "Oh, it's okay is it? Don't be a jackass, Jed!  All right, then..." she said, directing the full force of her exasperation and helpless fury at him, "... stand up."

Her husband continued to regard her mutinously.

Hands on hips, she challenged him again. "Prove it, buster. Stand up and take a walk."  

Eyes narrowed, Bartlet seemed to consider calling her bluff. Suddenly, he startled his anxiously watching companions by slamming his fist down on his leg with such force that they all winced at the impact.  

"Not now!  Damn it all to hell, not _this_. I don't have time for this now!" Drained by the explosion, the pain, he let his head fall back against the pillow.  

Abbey's features softened, and she moved to sit beside him, quietly threading her fingers around his undamaged hand. _Not now._ Dear God, but she couldn't help but agree with him.

"Mr. President?" Hackett's tone was sympathetic but insistent.

Eyes closed, Bartlet tightened his grip on his wife's hand and began to wearily rhyme off the familiar catalogue. "Dizziness, difficulty in focusing my eyes, tingling and some numbness of my legs, particularly the left. My right leg is aching too, but I think that's the torn muscles cramping again, not this." He sighed heavily. What was the point in fighting it? "And I feel incredibly... tired."

"Oh, God." McGarry's prayer was heartfelt.

Ziegler turned away, running a hand agitatedly over his head.

Turning to the hovering agents behind him, Butterfield inclined his head towards the door, silently ordering them to withdraw. Holstering their weapons, they began to file out, followed closely by their Chief. 

Before pulling the door closed behind him, Butterfield raised his eyes to find McGarry watching him, eyes colored with concern and helpless fury. For a long moment, he looked back at the Chief of Staff, and then nodded.

This was far from over.

McGarry turned back to the scene being played out on the bed. Hardening his resolve, he forced himself to listen.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Hackett was saying, letting his shoulders slump. Looking down at the man lying before him, he smiled encouragingly. "Get some rest, sir. As soon as the locals have worn off completely, we'll run some tests. Find out for sure if it's a relapse, and how severe. In the meantime, try not to worry."

Bartlet snorted, but nodded his appreciation. "Thank you, Admiral."

Abbey nearly gave in to her grief at the defeat in his voice, the dull hopelessness glazing his eyes. "Jed, don't..." _'Give in,'_ she was about to say, but choked on the words. She touched his cheek, the torn skin cold beneath her fingertips. He didn't respond.

_Don’t give in._

He already had. 

Clearing his throat, uncomfortably aware of the hidden meaning behind the words and gestures, Hackett stood up and turned away. Startled, he found himself accosted by a clearly agitated and concerned Chief of Staff.

"Is it the MS?" McGarry demanded harshly. "Has he had a relapse?"

The naval doctor studied both McGarry and Ziegler, then signaled with his eyes that they withdraw to the far corner of the room. "Yes, I'd say he has. Just how severe, we'll find out over the next few hours or days."

McGarry bit his lip, stifling a curse. "How long before he recovers?"

"Hard to tell. Hours, days, weeks. We'll have a better idea after we run some tests." Hackett regarded the Chief of Staff curiously. His tone became darker and he warned, "Mr. McGarry, you _do_ know that it can be a question of _if_ as much as _when_ the President recovers, don't you?"

"If?" Ziegler spoke sharply. "But he has relapsing/remitting MS. That means that he always recovers from attacks, doesn't it?"

"So far he always has. But MS is a very unpredictable disease. We really know very little about it." Hackett spoke with quiet intensity, trying to make his companions understand. "The President has been fortunate to experience full remission after attacks, but MS sufferers do not always recover fully from each new episode. Sometimes the symptoms, or a less severe variation of one or more of them, can remain. And we have no idea yet just how severe this present relapse is."

McGarry felt his heart sinking. He remembered the words, spoken over and over again both before Congressional committees and reporters. _Fever and stress can sometimes trigger an attack._

_Stress_. Far too much stress in a relatively short period of time. Had it been planned that way? He wasn’t sure of anything at this point. Rubbing his eyes, McGarry asked, "What's your own feeling, Admiral?"

Hackett shrugged helplessly. "I really don't like to say. With some luck, good care and a chance to relax and recoup after all he's been through..."

McGarry gave a choked laugh. " _Chance_ would be a fine thing!"  He smiled bitterly at his companion's quizzical expression. "Take my word for it, Admiral. This whole mess has barely gotten started."

# The End


End file.
